A Twist of Fate
by Zara Zee
Summary: 1864: John Winchester leaves his sons in the boarding house where they are staying and rides out of town, following yet another lead on the men who murdered his wife.The boys are declared abandoned and sent to the poorhouse. Full summary & warnings Part1
1. Chapter 1

**Beta: **The fabulous "_9Tiptoes"_

**Genre(s):** Historical_ AU; Angst; H/C; Drama; Gen. _

**Rating:** _R (For violence and adult themes.)_

**Spoilers:** N/A

**Disclaimer: **_If you recognize them, they are not mine. The SPN characters are Kripke's…I'm just borrowing them …for fun, not profit…Many of the characters are based on characters from Charles Dickens's Oliver Twist…elements of the plot are borrowed from Oliver Twist too._

**Characters:**_ Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Beadle Zachariah, Julian Reaper (AKA Grim Reaper, AKA Death), Rufus Turner, Daniel Elkins, Pastor Jim Murphy, Artful Andy Gallagher, Azazel _Se'irim_, Ansem Gallagher, Alastair von Damon, Gordon Walker, Ellen Harvelle, Jo Harvelle, Cassie Robinson, Jessica Moore, Miles Ashfield (AKA Ash), Ruby Cassidy, Chief of Police Michael Angelides, Castiel Novak, Pamela Barnes, Jake Talley, Ava Wilson, Uriel Wisdom, Bobby Singer, Karen Singer, John Winchester, Sarah Blake, Lisa Braden, Ben Braden, OMCs, OFCs._

**Warnings:** _Swearing, adult themes, violence, assault, child abuse, substance abuse, underage drinking, references to underage sex, references to prostitution, references to dub con, references to and the depiction of the aftermath of bdsm, references to slavery (the historical kind), references to and some depictions of racism, canon character deaths (not Sam or Dean), verbal anachronisms, possible minor historical and geographical inaccuracies…_

**Full Summary: **In late1864 John Winchester left his sons in the boarding house where they were staying and rode out of town, following yet another lead on the men who'd murdered his wife. Six months later he still hadn't returned and his sons were declared abandoned children and taken into the custody of the Kansas City Poorhouse. Several twists of fate later the boys run away to New York City—and find themselves on a collision course with the Unholy Trinity; Azazel Se'irim, who runs a gang of youthful pick pockets; Gordon Walker, a violent armed robber who selects his apprentices from among Azazel's boys; and Alastair von Damon who runs the notorious Hellfire Club. Will Dean and Sam's free will, strength of character and the deep brotherly love they have for one another help them rise above their situation and find their father? Or will they be used, corrupted and destroyed by sinister men of evil?

**Notes:** _Written for LiveJournal's SPN_Gen_BigBang. Comments, concrit most welcome. _

_May 1867_

Dean Winchester trudged into the Dining Hall of the Kansas City Poorhouse in a state of near exhaustion. He was twelve years old now and that meant he was old enough to work full time, grueling ten hour days spent crushing bones by hand to make fertilizer. Dean's hands were always red raw and bruised these days, but as jobs went, crushing bone wasn't bad. Sometimes the old bones still had a few scraps of flesh on them and as Dean was always starving, he never missed an opportunity to pick those scraps off the bones and eat them.

'You do know them's not always animal bones,' one of the overseers had cackled the first time he'd caught Dean tearing off a thin, fatty sliver of meat, 'You're as likely eatin' a piece o' the late Widow Sowbury as you are eatin' a piece of sow!'

Dean had shrugged and kept chewing. He'd been soundly beaten for his cheek, of course, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

Dean glanced around the dining hall. As always, despite his exhaustion, his eyes immediately searched out Sammy. At only eight, Sammy wasn't supposed to work at all, but Beadle Zachariah, Master of the Kansas City Poorhouse, was a firm believer in the old adage that the devil made work for idle hands and he insisted that even the youngest inmates spent a part of their day oakum picking.

Oakum picking—unraveling short pieces of rope—had always seemed rather pointless to Dean, but his was not to reason why; not if he wanted to eat the meager rations that the Poorhouse saw fit to provide anyway.

Dean spotted Sammy sitting with a bunch of younger boys and made eye contact. His little brother gave him a small grin and Dean returned it with one of his own.

Now that he was an older lad and being sent out to work, Dean was housed in a different dormitory to Sammy and he didn't get much opportunity to spend time with him. He hated not being able to look out for him all the time, but Sammy seemed to be holding his own. He was a tough kid; tougher than Dean in a lot of ways, not that Dean would ever tell his little brother that!

Dean collected his plate and stood in line for his supper; a lump of bread and a chunk of cheese; and then took it back to his table, his stomach growling with hunger. In accordance with the rules, he stood to attention in front of his place at the older boys' long, wooden table and waited until Beadle Zachariah banged his cane against the floor three times.

'Let us pray,' the Master intoned in his pompous voice. The Poorhouse inmates all bowed their heads, 'Dear Lord,' Zachariah sing-songed sanctimoniously, 'may these undeserving wretches, these pitiful, unworthy recipients of our selfless Christian charity, be forever grateful for this magnificent bounty, fruits of the Lord our God's fine lands, delivered unto them by the bountiful benevolence of the munificent and compassionate Good Christian Gentlemen of the Kansas City Parish. Amen.'

'Amen,' chorused the inmates.

'You may sit,' the Master allowed generously.

Dean waited, his body coiled, ready to snatch up his bread and cheese the minute permission was given.

'You may eat,' Zachariah permitted magnanimously.

Dean snatched up his bread and cheese and ate both in barely more than a heartbeat. Around him, everyone else was doing the same. He glanced towards his brother quickly, hoping that Sammy had eaten fast and not allowed anyone to steal his supper, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized that Sammy was no longer seated. His plate in his hands, Dean's baby brother was making his way determinedly towards the Master of the House.

Dean groaned. What the hell was the kid thinking? There was no way this was going to end well.

Sammy stopped in front of Beadle Zachariah, and cleared his throat, attracting the attention of the plump man. The man's eyes bulged in disbelief.

'Please, Sir,' Sammy said firmly, 'I want some more.'

The Master's eyes widened in shock and his expression would've been comical if it hadn't been so frightening.

Every eye in the place was glued to Sammy and Dean used the general distraction to slip out of his seat and edge quietly around the side of the room, until he was behind the Master.

'_What_?' the Master bellowed.

'Please sir,' Sammy repeated, 'I want some more.'

'_MORE_?' roared Zachariah. He hefted his cane, swinging it back across his shoulders as he prepared to beat some respect into the greedy brat at his feet. Instead the cane was snatched from his hands and thrown away.

'You leave my brother alone, you bastard!' Dean snarled at him.

'You _DARE_ attack a parochial officer!' Zachariah screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth in his rage. 'Bring them both to my office!' he shouted to the dinner wardens.

Dean grabbed Sammy's hand and ran. They had no chance, not really, but Dean intended to give the bastards a good run for their money. He and Sam weaved in and out of tables, up over the tops of tables, around their pursuer's ankles, and under tables, but eventually, the wardens got them cornered. They went down amid a flurry of slaps and blows and were then dragged, kicking and shouting, out of the Dining Hall and into the Master's office. Zachariah had retrieved his cane and Dean cursed himself for not snapping it in two when he'd had the chance.

The wardens held Dean and Sam tightly, their arms pinned behind their backs, and Beadle Zachariah peered self-righteously down at them from behind his ornately carved wooden desk, his cane swinging lightly but menacingly from his hand.

'Two greedier, more undeserving wretches it has never been my misfortune to have before me,' he intoned pompously. 'You, Boy,' he pointed his cane at Sam, 'have asked for _more;_ having _already eaten the supper allotted by the Dietary!_' He clicked his tongue in outraged disapproval. 'And _you_,' the tip of the cane moved towards Dean, 'have assaulted a _senior parochial officer_ in the course of attending to his duties.' He eyed the brothers malevolently and then shook his head sadly. 'I was never more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that you wretched boys shall come to be hanged one day. Stretched by the neck until dead,' he nodded sagely. 'You mark my words.'

Zachariah reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a worn, black leather tome, with the words Punishment Book embossed in gold on the front.

'In the meantime, it is my Christian duty to cure you of your sinful ways. The devil is in you boys and that's no mistake. But never fear; I shall beat him out of you.'

Dean watched as the Beadle dipped his feather quill into his ink pot and scribed a careful entry in the Punishment Book:

**6th May 1867 – Dean Winchester (orphan) – 1 doz. strokes of the cane. **

The Beadle would have been surprised to learn that the Winchester brothers could read; it was something their father had taught them before he went missing. Zachariah would have been even more astonished to learn that they could read upside down—their father had taught them that too, and a great many other skills that would have shocked the Master of the Poorhouse.

Zachariah indulged in a small, self-satisfied smirk as he instructed the wardens to let go of Dean. The boy shrugged them off, raised his chin defiantly, and treated Zachariah to an insolent grin which the Beadle was thoroughly looking forward to wiping from his face: All in the name of Christian duty, of course. Zachariah licked his lips at the thought of the firm, young buttocks that would soon be bent over his desk; he did so enjoy delivering a good thrashing. Not that the brats didn't deserve it. He was just doing his duty; if he happened to be a man who enjoyed his work, then surely God was smiling on him!

Zachariah smiled broadly and came around to the front of his desk. He tapped it with his cane, motioning Dean forward.

Dean knew the drill; it wasn't the first time he'd been sent to the Master's office for a caning. Every fiber of his being told Dean to fight, but he'd long since learned that resisting was pointless. Maintaining his cocky smirk, because _screw_ Beadle Zachariah, Dean moved to the edge of the desk, dropped his trousers and bent over the desk. The swish of the cane had Dean tensing in anticipation and the thwack against his bare skin sounded a fraction of a second before the searing pain hit. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and gasped.

Swish, thwack! Swish, thwack! Swish, thwack! Swish, thwack! Swish, thwack!

Dean always promised himself that he wouldn't cry; wouldn't make any noise at all, but it was never a promise he was able to keep. By the time he'd taken his designated twelve strokes, Dean was sobbing hard, his face streaked with tears. And Zachariah didn't stop! Dean knew his numbers; could read them, could write them and he for sure knew how to count. And he knew full well that even though Zachariah had written '1 doz strokes' in the Punishment Book, he didn't stop the caning until he'd delivered twice that many strokes to Dean's upturned backside, no matter how much Dean pleaded for mercy. When he was finally allowed up, Dean could barely stand and he winced in pain when the rough material of his trousers dragged against his abused flesh.

Zachariah nodded to the two wardens who'd been holding Dean earlier and they took hold of him again, restraining him firmly while the Beadle wrote in the Punishment Book:

**6th May 1867 – Samuel Winchester (orphan) – 6 strokes of the cane. **

For Dean, watching his little brother take a caning was much more difficult than being punished himself, and he cried just as hard during Sammy's caning as he'd done during his own. Nor did it escape his attention that the Beadle had given Sammy twelve strokes of the cane, not the six he'd written in the Punishment Book. Just as he'd done with Dean, Beadle Zachariah had doubled the maximum number of strokes allowed for a child of his age; a clear breach of the rules. No doubt he assumed that neither Sam nor Dean could read or count, but Dean doubted it would've made a difference even if he had known; who would ever believe the word of a couple of orphans over the word of the Master of the Poorhouse?

'Take them to the coal cellar and lock them in,' Zachariah said when he'd finished with Sammy, and the wardens dragged the weeping boys from the Beadle's office and threw them unceremoniously down the rough, uneven, stone steps and into the cold blackness of the coal cellar.

Sammy had cried throughout his punishment, of course he had, but it wasn't until he was alone in the dark with his big brother that he allowed himself to really fall apart. Dean threw his arms around the distressed little boy and held onto him tightly, running a hand lightly up and down his back and making soothing noises. Eventually Sammy quieted enough for Dean to make out that in among his brother's sobs was a litany of: _sorry, sorry, sorry_.

'Shh,' he comforted, 'You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for, little brother.'

'S'my fault!' Sammy hiccoughed, 'I got you in trouble!'

Dean brushed Sammy's bangs away from his eyes and stared intently into the gold-flecked hazel pools. Sammy's soulful eyes were red-rimmed and brimming with tears and his dirty face now had clean streaks where his tears had washed away the grime.

'It's not your fault, Sammy,' he avowed. 'It's my job to look after you, no matter what.'

Sammy choked out a sob and buried his face in his brother's shirt.

'But,' Dean added gently, 'what the hell were you thinkin', askin' for more?'

Sammy made a low growl.

'I saw them today,' he spat, 'the Parochial Board. Having dinner in the Board Dining Room. They had a whole roast pig on the table. With an apple in its mouth! They had hot sausage, and mustard, and pease pudding, and saveloys. And pies; so many pies! And jelly and custard and oh my God! Dean! You've never seen so much food! And they give us stale bread and cheese! It's not fair!'

And the boy promptly burst into tears again.

'Shh,' Dean hushed him. 'You know what else they prob'ly had? Indigestion! Least we never get that, eh?'

The little boy shuddered and shook in his arms.

'No, we get hunger pains instead. It's not fair,' he wept. 'All I want is a normal life. I want a Mommy and a Daddy; I want to have a full tummy; I want to go to school; I want the beatings to stop. Is that really too much to ask?'

Dean didn't say anything, just hugged his brother tighter, because in all honesty, he had a sneaking suspicion that for Winchesters, a normal life _was_ too much to ask for.

Later, when it seemed like it might be okay to let go of Sammy, Dean collected an armful of hessian sacks and created a makeshift bed for them on the floor. The brothers lay side by side on their stomachs, one of Dean's arms wrapped comfortingly around Sammy's shoulders.

'Tell me about Mommy?' Sammy murmured sleepily.

Dean's heart clenched. Talking about Mom hurt, but he was painfully aware that she had died when Sammy was too young to remember her; that his little brother had never known a mother's love or had the comfort of a normal family life.

Dean sighed. 'Mom was beautiful. She had long, blonde hair and soft green eyes. She sang, all the time, and she was the best cook ever. She loved to bake; especially pies. Her pies were awesome!'

Dean's stomach rumbled loudly and he figured, somewhat ruefully, that he should probably stop reminiscing about pie.

'Tell me about the fire?'

Dean's stomach churned, just as it did every time Sam asked him to talk about the day that had spelled the beginning of the end.

'Some bad men filled a bottle with kerosene, stuffed a rag in it, set fire to the rag, and then threw it through the window of our farm house,' Dean recited in the dull monotone the story deserved. 'It landed in your nursery and you started crying. Mom was in bed and she heard you cry so she went in to check on you,' Dean swallowed. 'She found the room on fire and called out for Dad to come and help—Dad had been working on the accounts and he'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table downstairs. By the time he woke up and made it into your nursery, the whole room was on fire and...' Dean's breathing hitched, '…and so was Mom. Her nightgown had caught fire while she was trying to fight the flames. I woke up because Mommy and Daddy were screaming and I ran to the door of your nursery. Dad grabbed you out of your cot and put you in my arms. "Dean," he said, "take your brother and run. As fast as you can. Don't look back." So that's what I did. I held you tight and I ran and ran, downstairs and out the front door. I didn't know where to go next though, so I just went over to our wagon and climbed into it. I sat there, rocking you in my arms until Dad came out. There was nothing he could do for Mom; he couldn't save her. And he knew if he stayed any longer we'd lose him too so he came out. The three of us sat in the wagon and watched the house burn down.'

'What about the bad men?' Sammy asked.

Dean shrugged. 'By that time, they were long gone. Dad's been hunting for them ever since.'

'Dean?' Sammy said after a long pause, 'Do you think Dad's dead?'

Dean shook his head. 'No way. Dad's tough. He left because he had a real good lead on the bad guys; tracked 'em all the way to New York City. Maybe he found 'em. Maybe now he has to lie low for a while, but he'll come back for us, Sammy, I know he will.'

Sammy didn't reply. It had been just over two years since their father had ridden out from the Boarding House where they'd been staying, paying board up front for four months and giving Dean extra money for food. Six months later, despite Dean's best efforts to keep them fed and housed and away from the attention of the authorities, they'd been declared abandoned children and taken into the custody of the Kansas City Poorhouse.

Sam had been six years old the last time he'd seen his father; in all honesty, he could barely remember him; and he certainly didn't have the faith in him that Dean seemed to have.

-X-

The day following Samuel Winchester's audacious request for _more_, Beadle Zachariah solemnly reported the child's impropriety to the Board. The Good Christian Gentlemen of the Board were duly horrified by the child's display of wanton greed, and outraged by his older brother's interference in Zachariah's initial discipline attempt. Over a sumptuous luncheon of roast duck with all the trimmings they agreed between them that an example must be made. It would not do at all to have other inmates becoming free spirited enough to question the rations allocated by the dietary; it would not do at all to have them thinking for themselves and taking action as they saw fit. That would lead to chaos! To Hell on Earth! And it had to be stopped; nipped in the bud.

As the Board tucked in with gusto to their apple and custard pie, they agreed unanimously that the wayward orphans should be dealt with as follows: Firstly, they would immediately be put on half rations; secondly, they would be caned again, this time in the dining hall, in front of the other inmates, and thirdly, their corrupting influence must be removed, as soon as possible from the Poorhouse.

Beadle Zachariah was instructed to immediately offer the boys out as bonded apprentices, with five dollars offered to whoever would take them. Zachariah schooled his features into a suitably serious expression, but inside he was delighted. There were always master tradesmen looking for boys and if you knew the right people—and Zachariah always did—then there were healthy kickbacks to be made. If he played his cards right, not only would Zachariah get a healthy finder's fee, he'd get to keep the Board's five dollars too.

-X-

Dean and Sam awoke with a start when the cellar door opened. They were stiff and sore from the previous day's caning and from sleeping all night on the cold cellar floor. Their stomachs growled and ached from emptiness and they ate with relish their meager breakfast—3 oz of bread; half the usual allotment—as soon as it was thrown at them by the warden who'd opened the door.

'Straighten up lads,' he said gruffly, 'I'm to take you to see the Beadle.'

Beadle Zachariah took great joy in informing the Winchester brothers that they were on half rations until further notice; that they were to receive another caning, this one in front of all the inmates; followed by which, they'd be offered up as bonded 'prentices, and not necessarily kept together. Dean heard Sam's sharp intake of breath and looked at him quickly, expecting tears. Instead, his little brother was looking at Zachariah with cold rage.

'You son of a bitch,' Sam snarled.

Zachariah raised his eyebrows incredulously and then, with a smug smile, he took Sam by the arm, spun him around and delivered half a dozen hard swats to his backside.

'I'm going to enjoy putting you boys in your place,' he said haughtily.

'Gloat all you want, you dick,' Dean spat back, 'you're still bald!'

The Beadle laughed. 'I've got the perfect Master in mind for you, boy. Someone who'll put that impertinent mouth of yours to a much better use!'

Dean had no idea what Zachariah meant by that but he inferred from the Beadle's tone that it was something dirty and he flushed a deep red, right to the roots of his hair.

Satisfied that he'd stunned the insolent orphan into silence, Zachariah had four wardens escort the Winchester boys out to the Dining Hall where they were bent over a table at the head of the room and summarily caned. This time, though, Dean noted bitterly, the Master of the Poorhouse followed the rules and they only received the maximum number of strokes allowed for boys of their age. Following their public thrashing the boys were treated briefly in the infirmary and then returned to the coal cellar, where they clung to each other and cried until they fell asleep again.

-X-

The boys were awakened from their sleep once more by the cellar door opening. The usual dinner ration was 4oz bacon and 3 oz of potato. Today, Dean and Sam were simply given potato. They were then taken to a disused office, given a basket of rope and told that if they wanted any supper they'd make sure to have all the oakum unpicked by suppertime.

'Are you alright, Sammy? Dean asked, as he put the basket of rope up on top of the desk.

Sam nodded. 'Don't think I'm gonna be able to sit down for a week, but, yeah. I'm okay. How 'bout you?'

Dean shrugged. 'That salve helped a bit, I think, but…nope, not gonna be sitting down for a while,' he indicated the basket of rope, 'C'mon, let's get this done. Cuz if I don't get any supper I'm gonna start thinkin' the 'roaches look good.'

Dean made a game out of unpicking the oakum and soon had his little brother suckered in and entertained. The fact that it was just the two of them, with no cruel, teasing boys to bother them and no cane-happy overseers urging them to work faster meant that the afternoon passed by quite pleasantly—or at least what passed for _pleasantly_ when you were an orphan with a sore ass living in the Poorhouse. When the office door was suddenly thrust open Dean and Sam were instantly fearful.

Beadle Zachariah and another man stood in the door way.

'Well?' the Beadle addressed the other man, 'What do you think?'

The man—an ugly brute with the most villainous countenance that Dean had ever seen—leered at the boys.

'Are they both available?' he rasped.

Zachariah frowned.

'I assumed you'd only be interested in the older boy.'

The brute wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and Dean thought he saw Zachariah repress a look of revulsion. This distressed him greatly because if _Zachariah_ thought this man was repugnant then he must be truly evil.

'They're both available,' Zachariah sighed, 'but if you want the younger one too then it's triple the usual finder's fee.'

'Triple!' the brute cried. 'Daylight robbery! Forget it!'

Zachariah shrugged.

'Then forget the younger boy.'

The brute scowled and harrumphed and eventually agreed.

'Excellent,' Zachariah beamed. 'Then we'll go before the magistrate first thing in the morning and have their indenture to you approved and their papers drawn up.'

The brute rubbed his groin.

'Don't suppose you'd let me try before I buy?' he asked.

This time Zachariah didn't bother to hide his look of disgust.

'Certainly not!' he admonished, his voice quivering with rage. 'What you do with your 'prentices is your business and good luck to you. What you do with _my_ orphans is very much _my_ business and _that_, I will not allow, you lecherous fool!'

And with that he hustled the brute from the room, banging the door shut ferociously and snicking the lock with more force than necessary.

Dean and Sam stared at each other in horror.

'We are _so_ screwed, Sammy,' Dean said at last.

-X-

The very next morning it was Beadle Zachariah himself who woke the boys up. He brought them a holiday allowance—twice the normal breakfast ration of bread _and_ a bowl of gruel! Sammy immediately began to cry, certain that the only reason Zachariah was fattening them up like this was because the ugly man from yesterday was going to kill them for some useful purpose and needed them to be fat.

'Hush, child,' the Beadle said pompously, 'don't make your eyes all red when you're going before the magistrate! He might suspect you of a guilty conscience and have you hanged by accident!'

Sammy gulped at once and tried to stop crying.

'After you've eaten,' Zachariah instructed, 'wash your hands and face in this basin, and then put on these clean shirts. You're going to be 'prenticed today! This'll set you up for life and make men of you and no mistake. You're two very lucky boys.'

Dean ate his bread and gruel quickly, sparing Zachariah only the briefest of glances. He didn't believe a word that came out of the man's mouth, but he was glad of the extra food.

It was only a short walk from the Poorhouse to the Magistrate's Office. As soon as they arrived, Dean and Sam were locked in a small room by themselves to await their fate. The boys stood in the dank little room for half an hour, their hearts nearly beating out of their chests with anxiety, until suddenly the door was thrust open by Beadle Zachariah.

'Come now boys!' he said with faux heartiness. 'Time for you to go before the Magistrate,' he lowered his voice. 'The Magistrate will ask you if you want to be apprenticed, and you must say 'yes'. You understand, boys?'

'What if we say 'no'?' Dean asked.

Zachariah glowered.

'You will say 'yes',' he rejoined coldly, 'or you will make an enemy of me. And the last person you want as your enemy is me. Other men may be stronger, but I'm _petty_! And there is no end to the suffering I can cause you.'

Dean didn't reply just gripped Sammy's hand tighter and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

The Magistrate was a kindly looking old man, with wispy grey hair and pince nez spectacles perched on the end of his rather bulbous nose. He looked up from the parchment he was reviewing when the boys entered the room and smiled.

'Ah, good. Are these the boys?'

'They are your worship. Bow to the Magistrate, boys,'

The boys obediently did as they were told.

'So,' said the Magistrate, peered over his spectacles at the Winchester brothers. 'I hear that you want to be 'prentice Blacksmiths. Is that correct?'

Dean glanced at his little brother who was staring at his feet in terror. He turned slightly and looked at the ugly man from yesterday; the man he now knew was a Master Blacksmith. The Beadle dug his fingers insistently into Dean's side, reminding Dean to hurry up and give the 'yes' that was expected of him. Dean opened his mouth but the word died before it could get to his lips. In part, he was a little overcome by the formality of the situation, but in addition, he couldn't help noticing the obscene bulge in the Master Blacksmith's pants and he couldn't help remembering how the man had wanted to "try before he bought." Zachariah had called him _lecherous_ and Dean knew what that meant but…it didn't make sense…why would he want _them_? They weren't girls…how could—

'Son?' the Magistrate prompted.

'I…uh…'

Suddenly Sammy threw himself to the floor.

'Please sir,' he begged, 'don't make us go with that man! He looks at us funny!'

The Magistrate may have been old and half blind but he wasn't stupid. He was an Englishman by birth, educated at Eton and Cambridge and he'd already noticed the tent in the Blacksmith's pants and the way he licked his lips whenever he looked at the boys. The Magistrate knew what it meant when a grown man looked at young boys that way; knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Blacksmith planned to use the smithing techniques of _bending_ and _hammering_ not just to iron and steel but to his two young 'prentice boys as well. The Magistrate had already been wavering about this apprenticeship and Sammy's desperate plea was the final straw. He couldn't, in all good conscience, approve this.

Picking up the piece of parchment from his desk, the Magistrate tore it in two.

'I will not be sanctioning these indentures,' he said firmly. 'Beadle, take the boys back to the Poorhouse.'

'I hope you have not formed the opinion that the Poorhouse has been guilty of any improper conduct on the unsupported testimony of a mere child!' Zachariah blustered.

'I am not required to form any opinion on the matter,' the Magistrate rejoined sharply. 'I am sure you review potential Masters for your wards with great care, don't you, Good Sir?'

The Magistrate fixed his gaze on Zachariah and the Beadle felt the weight of the older man's expectations.  
>'Of course, Your Honor,' he nodded vigorously. 'And will take even greater care in the future!'<p>

The Magistrate smiled and banged his gavel.

'Next!'

Outside of the Magistrate's office, Zachariah seized Sam by the ear.

'Just you wait, boy,' he sneered. 'I'm going to make you suffer like you've never suffered before!'

Dean's hand was moving towards the Beadle, preparing to lash out and protect his brother, when he had the sudden, unsettling feeling that he was being watched. He looked up nervously and noted the alarming figure of the County undertaker standing next to his hearse in front of the Poorhouse gates. He was watching the scene playing out before him intently, his silver topped black cane held loosely in his hand. Zachariah too, seemed to sense the man's stare and let go of Sammy abruptly before turning to scowl at the undertaker, who nodded his head and indicated that he was waiting to speak with the Beadle.

'Hurry up,' Zachariah admonished the boys, grasping them both firmly by the arm and dragging them across the road, toward the waiting man.

Julian Reaper had been the parish undertaker since God was in short pants. A gaunt man, with slicked-back gray hair and obsidian eyes which just didn't seem to blink enough, his appearance had fanned the fires of every childish imagination in the Poorhouse. In the fevered imaginings of the Poorhouse children, the undertaker was Death himself and his unfortunate surname did little to dissuade this fantasy from taking root. In the corridors of the Poorhouse, Mr Julian Reaper was better known by his nickname: Grim Reaper.

'Reaper,' Zachariah said with a nod.

'Beadle,' Death's voice rasped like a snake shedding skin and Dean shuddered, 'I've collected your dead. The two from the women's section. Your lackeys told me I'd need to find you for my payment,' the Grim Reaper smiled. 'And here you are.'

'Here I am indeed,' the Beadle replied glumly. 'Well come on, man. The safe's in my office.'

Reaper held his gaze for a long moment and then turned to study the boys.

'Aren't you a beautifully melancholy pair,' he said at last.

He focused on Sam. 'What soulful eyes you have; I can see through them to your wounded core.' He shifted his attention to Dean. 'And you. Your face is so very expressive,' he ran a thumb gently over Dean's jaw. 'So much pain,' he murmured, 'so much loss,' Reaper sighed. 'You boys were made to mourn.'

Zachariah harrumphed irritably. 'Well they certainly make _me_ mourn,' he declared. 'This one,' he thumped Sammy on the back, 'just lost them a perfectly good apprenticeship with his weeping and wailing and carrying on! You don't know anyone who wants a boy do you, Reaper? At present these boys are nothing but a dead weight! A millstone around the parochial neck! And the Board is willing to give _three_ dollars to anyone prepared to take them on.'

Reaper stroked his chin. 'Three dollars, you say?' He eyed the boys again. 'They would make fine Mutes,' he mused. 'I could use them for children's funerals,' he nodded. 'Yes indeed. Those mournful little faces would be just the thing!'

And so it came to pass that on the 9th day of May, in the year 1867 Dean and Sam Winchester were apprenticed to Julian Reaper, the undertaker, and left the Poorhouse which had been their home for two years with nothing but a small bundle each.

To say that Mrs Reaper was less than impressed to have two parish children land on her doorstep would most certainly be an understatement. A most vicious argument followed the Winchesters' arrival at their new home and the boys cowered in the corner of the parlor while their new 'parents' almost came to blows.

'They'll eat us outta house and home!' Mrs Reaper screeched. 'Grow fat on our victuals and our drink! And you never get a decent day's work out of a Poorhouse brat! Lazy, good-for-nothings, the lot of 'em! But I'm sure _you_ know best, dear! Men _always_ know best! So why should you consult me! I'm a nobody in my own home!' And with that she swept upstairs with a disdainful parting look at the boys.

'Never would've thought,' Dean whispered in Sammy's ear, 'that the Grim Reaper's wife would be scarier than the Reaper himself!'

-X-

If the Winchester brothers were hoping to find a motherly figure in Mrs Reaper, then they were doomed to be sorely disappointed. Death did eventually persuade his wife to come back downstairs for dinner and she saw to the boys with about the same amount of enthusiasm as Dean evidenced when reporting to Beadle Zachariah's office.

'Don't expect to be treated like family,' Mrs Reaper admonished. 'I'm your Mistress, not your mother. You'll mind your manners and you'll work hard or you'll be thrashed. You'll eat with the Help and you'll sleep in the Master's workrooms!'

And with that kind pronouncement she led them to the kitchen, a dark, stone room dominated by a large hearth in which sat a simmering orange fire. A soot-smudged, blonde-haired girl, just a few years older than Dean, stood stirring at a large cast iron pot which hung from the hearth rail.

'Lizzy,' Mrs Reaper said sharply, attracting the girl's attention.

'Ma'am,' she bobbed a quick curtsey.

'These here are our new parish boys. 'Prentices to Mr Reaper. Give them a ladle of stew. From the bottom of the pot, mind!'

Lizzy dutifully slopped some pork stew onto two square wooden plates and dumped them on the floor, in the corner next to the hearth. Dean and Sam immediately threw themselves to the floor and used their hands to shovel the stew into their mouths. The dogs stuck their noses in to see if they could wrest some extra food from the boys but Dean growled at them so ferociously that they soon slunk away with their tails between their legs.

'Dear me,' Mrs Reaper said faintly, both she and Lizzy having watched the boys eat in silent horror, 'what savages you boys are.'

She gave Lizzy some brief instruction regarding her afternoon's work and then swept from the room, throwing a final look of disgust at the boys as she left.

Dean treated Lizzy to his very best 'how you doin'?' smile and received a delicately raised eyebrow for his troubles.

'Scullery's through there, Work'us,' she said.

'I'm Dean. That's my brother, Sam.'

Lizzy shrugged. 'You parish brats is all the same to me. Go on and wash up or the Mistress'll come after you with a broom!'

Dean and Sam did as they were bid and then sat quietly in the corner by the fire and watched Lizzy go about her work while they waited for further instruction.

'D'you need a hand?' Dean asked when Lizzy struggled to move a large pot by herself.

She looked sharply at him and for a moment he thought she would refuse his help, but then she nodded curtly.

'How long have you worked for the Reapers?' he asked as they moved the heavy pot together.

'Since I was twelve,' she replied.

'How old are you now?' Dean asked, and received another sharp look.

'Older than you! So mind your manners!'

'Fourteen? Fifteen?' Dean's smile was flirtatious by nature, without any intent on his part, and Lizzy couldn't help responding to it.

'Fourteen,' she sighed, 'and you best be careful who you flash that smile at Dean. You're way too pretty for a boy.'

Dean frowned. 'What does that mean?'

But Lizzy just shook her head.

Any further enquiry on Dean's part, if indeed he would have pursued the matter further, was forestalled by the Grim Reaper sticking his head around the kitchen door and summoning the boys to follow him.

That very day the boys began to learn their new trade. Their initial duties involved the knocking together of cheap paupers' coffins and washing the dead. Mr. Reaper had an older 'prentice, Jack Wetherby, who made the better quality coffins for the wealthy folk and who assisted him with the embalming process. Much like the mistress of the house, Jack was, in many ways, less than impressed to find himself saddled with two younger 'prentices. In one small measure however, he was delighted. He could now fob off all of his more unpleasant duties onto one of the Work'us brats, and, as he was no longer low man on the pole, he could point the finger of scorn at the two young orphans, taunt them with ignominious nicknames and speak to them with derision! Fortunately, the Winchester brothers were quite used to such treatment and being both quick with their tongues and their fists, they were able to hold their own quite successfully against young Mr Wetherby, much to the older 'prentice's chagrin.

The end of the day saw the brothers given an armful of blankets and instructed to make up the small cot in the corner of the work room. The cot held plenty of room for two young boys who didn't mind in the least cuddling up together for warmth and reassurance, and in truth their sleeping conditions were much more comfortable than they'd ever been at the Poorhouse: except for the minor matter of the dead, laid out for embalming on the work tables, and the large number of finished and unfinished coffins which stood gloomily about the place. In the dim evening light of the work room, the coffins loomed grotesquely and the cutout of a hearse drawn by four black horses which adorned the wall behind the counter took on a ghostly shimmer not apparent during the day, and seemingly moved of its own accord.

The brothers had only been in bed a little while when Dean felt Sammy begin to shake.

'You cold?' he enquired.

'Nnnooo,' stuttered Sammy.

'You sick?' Dean put a hand to his little brother's forehead but he was neither clammy nor feverish.

'It's just...' Sammy began after a moment. 'There's _dead bodies_ here!'

Dean sucked in a breath. In truth he was just as unhappy as his little brother about the presence of two dead women in their sleeping quarters, but for Sammy's sake, he needed to appear unaffected.

'The dead can't hurt you, Sammy,' he replied, 'you just go to sleep, okay.'

'But…but…what if they turn into vampires? Or zombies? What if their ghosts turn up to haunt us?'

Dean sighed. 'You think too much, Sammy. And you've got way too much imagination.'

Dean frowned. Actually, Sam's imagination was something that could help him out here.

'And anyway,' he said, 'so what if they did turn into vampires or zombies? We know how to handle those!'

Sammy frowned and turned to face Dean so quickly that his cold nose bumped against his brother's cheek.

'What do you mean? No we don't!'

'Sure we do,' Dean rejoined. 'Don't tell me you've forgotten what Dad taught us?'

Dean was employing his own imagination at this point, but he figured that if Sam's imagination could conjure endless horror, then it could conjure the solution to that horror just as easily.

Sam shook his head. 'I don't remember much about Dad, you know that.'

'Well,' Dean started out slowly, thinking back to all the ghost and horror stories he'd ever heard tell. 'If they move fast then we know they're vampires and we have to stab them through the heart with a wooden stake. And if they move slow then we know they're zombies. And then we have to bash their heads in. And the really great thing? We've got everything we need right here in the work room. We've got off-cuts of wood that we can sharpen into stakes; we've got hammers, and knives, and all sorts of tools that could be real dangerous! We're set, Sammy. With all this stuff we could be proper Monster Hunters for sure!'

Sammy nodded, his eyes shining with admiration for his big brother.

'Should we make some stakes now?' he asked.

Dean considered the question.

'No need,' he said finally, 'you only turn into a vampire if you got bit by one. And we didn't see no bite marks on those women, did we?'

'Yeah, but—' Sammy began, but Dean cut him off.

'We don't need to make stakes right now, Sammy. Those women died of being in the Poorhouse, not cuz of vampires. Besides, do you really wanna risk waking the Reapers up? You miss getting your ass beat or something?'

Sam sighed, one of his loud, long suffering sighs.

'Yeah. Okay. They're prob'ly not gonna turn into something nasty. But what about if they come back as ghosts?'

Dean shrugged. 'Then they're more likely to haunt Zachariah than us. But just in case…' Dean slipped out of bed and edged into the center of the workshop. Flat-headed nails, wood chips and shreds of black material littered the floor so he trod carefully; and steadfastly avoided letting his eyes linger on the stiff, white corpses which lay atop the work tables. He cast around for something that he could convince Sammy was a weapon against ghosts and his eyes finally lit upon an iron crow bar that their new master used for prying open coffins, should the need to do so every arise. Dean swallowed at the thought and hefted the heavy tool. He remembered Miss Nettie from the boarding house telling him tales of the Faerie folk in her rich Irish brogue. One of the many tales she'd spun for him had told how faeries were deadly allergic to iron. Maybe he could convince Sammy that ghosts were allergic to it too? Dean took the crowbar back to their cot and, mustering all the conviction he could manage, he explained to his little brother that all you had to do with a ghost was hit it with something made of iron and it would lose its grip on the mortal plane and go straight to heaven. Sammy listened, wide-eyed and attentive and never once doubted that his big brother knew what he was talking about. He fell asleep almost immediately, feeling safer than he'd felt in a long while. Dean took a lot longer to drift off. Despite his reassurances to Sammy, he was none too sanguine about sleeping in a room with dead bodies in it and unlike his little brother Dean didn't have an older sibling looking out for him.

-X-

Days soon turned into weeks and all too quickly the Winchester brothers had been with the Reapers for a month. They were both happier than they'd been in a long while and Dean had finally started to think that maybe, just maybe, their luck had finally changed. They neither of them much enjoyed dressing up like toffs and walking solemnly in front of funeral processions, which was the primary function of an undertaker's mute; and they didn't much like washing dead bodies either. But Dean found that he enjoyed making coffins and he really enjoyed washing, polishing and waxing the hearse carriage. Sammy had become quite proficient at coffin making, but didn't seem to get much pleasure from the activity. He truly loved caring for the horses though; would've spent all day in the stables if he was allowed; and watching him play with the dogs was a sight to behold!

Mistress Reaper may not have accepted the boys as family, but the dogs had. It hadn't taken the boys long to establish with the dogs that they ranked higher in the pack they did, and the dogs were now as friendly and protective of them as they were of the Reapers. Jack, they still growled at, much to Dean's delight.

The boys were much better fed than they'd been at the Poorhouse, despite Mistress Reaper's insistence that they be fed the scraps, leftovers and bottom of the pot scrapings. They still had to sleep in the work room, which frequently meant sharing their space with the dead, but they were more or less used to it now and thanks to Dean's imaginative intervention, Sammy didn't fret over it like he had. All in all things were going extremely well, which meant, Dean reflected later, he really should have known that all hell was about to break loose, because when did Winchesters ever get a lucky break?

It was Sammy who started it (and Dean shied away from thinking about just how often that was the case.) He was washing a body when he gasped suddenly and called Dean over. Dean had been working on a coffin with Jack and Jack was none too pleased when the younger 'prentice left his work to go and see what his little brother wanted.

'Look, Dean!' Sammy pointed frantically at a large hickey on the neck of the corpse. 'He got bit! He might turn into a vampire!'

Dean snorted and shook his head.

'It's just a hickey, dude. Just means this guy got lucky before he died.'

'But Dean—'

'It's not a vampire bite!' Dean exclaimed, a little too loudly.

'D'you say 'vampire,' Work'us?' Jack demanded, looming up suddenly behind them.

Before Dean could deny it, Sammy piped up excitedly:

'Yes, Jack! This man got bit by a vampire! Look at his neck!'

Jack brushed past Dean and peered at the corpse.

He turned to Dean and raised an eyebrow and Dean smiled helplessly. Kids and their imaginations. What can you do, right?

Jack wheeled on Sam.

'There's no such thing as vampires,' he stated.

'Yes there are,' Sammy nodded vigorously. 'Tell him Dean! Tell him how our Dad taught us how to fight them!'

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and chewed briefly on his bottom lip, but before he could say anything, Jack erupted scornfully.

'My eye!' he exclaimed. 'Are you soft in the head, kid? There's no such thing as vampires. And anyone who told you there was, well, they're soft in the head too!'

Sammy's hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed.

'You take that back!' he spat.

'Take it easy, Sammy,' Dean intervened, wanting to keep the peace.

'Yeah, Sammy,' Jack taunted, 'take it easy. Wouldn't want ya to start foaming at the mouth; ya might end up in the lunatic asylum with all the other head cases what believe in monsters!'

'Okay, back off Jack Sprat,' Dean growled, forcibly holding back his brother as the younger boy strained to claw the senior 'prentice's eyes out.

'Tell him, Dean!' Sam panted.

Dean grimaced. 'Yeah, uh. Some things it's better to keep to ourselves bro.'

Jack laughed cruelly.

'Don't tell me you believe in monsters too! The whole family's soft in the head! No wonder you ended up in the Poorhouse! Your parents howl at the full moon! Stark raving loonies, the pair of them!'

'Okay, that's enough!' Dean snarled. 'Don't you talk about our parents like that!'

'Loonies! Loonies!' Jack taunted. 'Your Momma was a Loony!'

'You shut up about our Mom!'

'Is she in the nut house? Is that why they took you away from her?'

For one brief moment Dean couldn't figure out why his hand was hurting. And then he saw Jack sprawled on the floor—on top of the splintered remnants of the polished wooden coffin they'd been working on. He had blood pouring from his nose and was wild-eyed with fear.

Before Dean even had time to think _oh crap,_ the door from the master's office opened and the Grim Reaper appeared at the threshold. He surveyed the scene before him with a grim gravity that made him worthy of his nickname, and then turned at last to Dean, his face betraying no emotion.

'Join me in my office, Dean,' he said evenly, before turning his back and returning to his desk.

Dean's eyes flicked from Death to Jack (now looking smug) and back again.

'Now, Dean,' Death re-iterated from the depths of his office.

Dean drew a very surreptitious deep breath and walked slowly and reluctantly to meet his fate, with Sammy following determinedly behind him.

Dean stopped in Death's office door way and waited to be given further instruction.

'Have a seat,' the Grim Reaper gestured.

Dean moved forwards nervously and sat cautiously opposite Death, conscious that Sammy had moved quietly to stand behind him. Death glanced briefly at the younger boy but allowed him to stay.

'Tell me what happened,' the master undertaker ordered, returning his gaze to the older boy.

Dean wet his lips anxiously, 'I hit Jack, sir,' he admitted.

'Did he hit you?'

Dean shook his head.

'Why did you hit him?'

'He was teasing Sammy. Saying stuff about our parents.'

Death regarded him silently for a moment.

'Dean,' he said finally, 'you are a Poorhouse orphan. I invite you to contemplate just how insignificant you are to the majority of society. I doubt this is the first time you have heard unpleasant things said about your parents; it will certainly not be the last. You cannot afford to get into a fist fight every time this happens or you will soon find yourself imprisoned. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Death nodded.

'Very good. Now. What are we going to do about the coffin that you destroyed?'

'Dean didn't destroy it, Jack did!' Sammy contradicted.

Death quelled him with a look and then returned his gaze to the older boy. Dean sighed and resigned himself to an unpleasant—and probably painful—outcome.

-X-

The Reapers' wood shed was a lot more comfortable than the coal cellar at the Poorhouse. Well, it was warmer anyway. And Dean was a lot more comfortable here than he'd ever been in the coal cellar, because the Grim Reaper hadn't whipped or beaten him. Dean hadn't quite processed that yet; he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He'd spent his first few hours in the wood shed in a lather of distress; sure that every creak and groan of timber he heard was the master undertaker coming back with a switch to mark him up good. Lizzy had brought him half a bowl of stew at supper time and Dean's anxiety had ratcheted up a notch. Surely the master would come and beat him before bed time? But so far he'd been left alone and it was now so late in the evening that the Reapers must certainly be in bed themselves. Dean counted himself very lucky. Compared to some of the punishments he'd suffered in the Poorhouse, three days confined to the wood shed on half rations was nothing. He wriggled a bit and wrapped his blanket around himself even tighter. It wasn't as cold here as it had been in the coal cellar, but it was still cold, and he'd had Sammy to help keep him warm before. Dean's mouth pulled into a grim line as he thought of his little brother, alone in the work room with a dead body he was convinced would turn into a vampire. The only reason his banishment to the wood shed bothered him at all was because of the impact it would have on Sammy. He was supposed to look out for the kid, and the idea of him all alone, shivering in fear amongst the coffins and the corpses was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. Not that Dean would ever admit that. To anyone. Ever. Getting all emotional and wanting to talk about _feelings_, that was Sammy's thing, not his.

A sudden rattling had him jerking upright. He clutched his blanket to himself protectively and stared at the door waiting for the Grim Reaper to burst through it, switch in hand.

The rattling sounded again and Dean frowned, turning his head and cocking his ear. The noise wasn't coming from the door. It was coming from the back of the shed. He got to his feet silently and crept deeper into the shed, wondering what manner of critter he was going to have to deal with. The wooden shutters on the back window burst open abruptly and Dean lunged for a small log, certain that a bear at the very least was trying to break in. A shadowy shape loomed at the window, huge in the moonlight, as it reared forward and attempted to enter the shed. Dean swung the log in his hands, breaking off his swing with a curse when he realized that the shadowy shape shimmering in through the small window was his brother.

'Jeez, Sammy!' he growled. 'I nearly whacked you!'

'Sorry,' Sam said breathlessly, as he dumped both his own and his brother's swags on the floor.

'What's this?' Dean asked, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. 'Why've you brought our stuff out here? What's going on?'

'You know the guy what got bit by the vampire?' Sam began, and Dean's stomach churned.

'Uh, yeah?'

'Turns out he was the deputy mayor. I heard a man in the office telling Death that some Lady of the Night bit him and they didn't want the bite mark to show at the viewing cuz that'd be _unbecoming to his office_, whatever that means. So you see, I was right! A Lady of the Night…that's gotta be a vampire, right?'

Dean ran a hand across his eyes.

'Uh, not exactly, Sammy. That's a girl who does stuff with guys for money.'

'Stuff?' Sam frowned.

Dean nodded and made a crude hand gesture.

'Huh?' Sam just looked puzzled.

Dean sighed. 'Never mind, Sammy. It's not a vampire. Just take my word for it.'

'So why'd she bite him?'

Dean glowered.

'Some people like how it feels. Rest assured, the deputy mayor is not gonna turn into a vampire…you're quite safe to go back to bed, okay? I don't want you gettin' in trouble for sneakin' out.'

Sam shuffled uncomfortably.

'Yeah, about that. I sorta…staked the guy already.'

Dean's mouth fell open.

'You did _WHAT_?'

'Well I thought he was a vampire, didn't I?' Sam retorted defensively, 'I made a wooden stake and stuck it through his heart.'

Bile rose in Dean's throat and he looked at his little brother in horror.

'You stuck a stake in the chest of the deputy mayor?'

Sam nodded.

'And then I tried to cut his head off. You know, better safe than sorry. But the knife wasn't very sharp and his neck was kinda tough and…Dean? Are you feeling okay?'

'We have to leave town,' Dean's voice was a strangled whisper. 'Now.'

Sam nodded affably.

'That's why I got our stuff, dude. I did what I had to do, but most people wouldn't understand. Most people don't know about vampires.'

'He wasn't gonna turn into a vampire!' Dean hissed, 'All you did was mess up the corpse of the deputy mayor! You're lucky you're only eight, Sammy. If you were my age they'd probl'y hang you for that!'

Sam turned big, tear-filled, puppy dog eyes on his brother.

'Well I didn't know!' he said plaintively. 'I was just trying to save people's lives!'

Dean pulled his little brother into a hug.

'It's okay, Sammy,' he reassured. 'I'm never gonna let anything bad happen to you, alright? We'll leave now. By sunup we should be far enough away that they won't bother to come after us. The whole thing'll just be one giant embarrassment and they'll just hush it up.'

Sam pulled out of his brother's embrace.

'Where should we go Dean?'

Dean thought for a moment and then nodded to himself. 'We'll go and look for Dad. He went to New York City. So that's where we're gonna go.'


	2. Chapter 2

**A Twist of Fate—Part 2**

_(For full summary and warnings see Part 1)_

_**June 1867**_

Dean kept look out while his little brother slowly and carefully wiggled a stiff piece of wire into the padlock attached to the front door of Hayden Bros Freight Depot.

'How's it goin' Sammy?' Dean asked after a while. He turned his head slightly and watched his little brother, the tip of the boy's tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

Sam sucked in a quiet breath of air. 'S'okay. I remember this. Dad teachin' us how to do it. I think I nearly got it. I—' he broke off with a pleased sound as the padlock fell open.

With a final furtive glance around the darkened dockyards, Dean pulled the warehouse door open and shepherded his little brother inside. In the morning, someone was going to catch hell for 'forgetting' to lock the warehouse, but when nothing was missing, Dean figured they'd just breathe a sigh of relief and forget about it.

The warehouse was packed tight with bags of flour, bags of soy beans, boxes of apples and barrels of cider. Dean found a secluded place behind a mountain of piled produce and created a makeshift bed out of sacks of flour and empty hessian bags. Sammy was asleep within minutes, the stress of the day finally catching up with him, but Dean lay awake for ages, going over the plan in his head.

It had been a little after eleven pm when they'd made their way out of the Reaper's locked wood shed and broken into the main house. The dogs had barely raised a whimper as the boys had tiptoed into the kitchen. Dean had gathered together a selection of bread, cheese and scraps of pork from the larder and wrapped the whole lot in a large piece of cheese cloth, before filling a metal flask with water. They'd helped themselves to a couple of bedrolls, then Sammy had hugged the dogs goodbye and they'd slipped like ghosts into the empty darkness of the night and headed down to the docks.

The plan was to stow away on a steam boat and make their way to New York City. Once there, they'd find work and look for their Dad. Dean had no idea how far away New York City was, no idea at all how long it would take to get there, but he was determined to do it. There was no way they could stay in Kansas City, not after what Sammy had done to the deputy mayor, and it was Dean's job to protect his little brother. One way or another they were going to make it to New York. And if Dean couldn't find Dad, well, they'd just have to make their fortune by themselves. New York was a thriving city of opportunity, or so Dean had heard: a place where a young man who was willing to work hard could do well for himself. If they didn't find Dad, Dean would continue to make good on the promise he'd made his father. He'd take of Sammy, no matter what.

-X-

Clattering, shouting, noise and confusion jerked Dean wide awake, right on dawn.

'Have a good look 'round,' a gruff voice demanded, 'we need to know what's been stolen.'

'Dean!' Sammy whispered, his eyes wide with fear.

Dean hushed him and maneuvered them so that the hessian sacks hid them from view. They stayed still and silent until the dock men had decided that nothing was missing, and then they snuck out of the warehouse and into the dockyard.

The sights and sounds of the busy waterfront district had Sammy entranced. The clamorous hustle and bustle along the banks of the Missouri, and up and down the city's earthen streets, reflected the commerce so important to the livelihood of the town and its outlying regions. Sam stared about in awe, listening to the steamboat whistles, the lapping of the water and the churning of the paddles, as the great boats waited for their cargo. On the river banks, horses nickered, mules brayed, oxen bellowed, and teamsters shouted orders to their teams. Saddles creaked and chains rattled as horses in harness shook themselves and there was a constant clip clop of hooves, of men shouting greetings and advice to one another, and of boots and shoes thumping and pounding along the gangplanks and out onto the steamboats, as the dock workers loaded great bundles of cloth, crates, barrels, and a wide assortment of goods onto the boats.

Dean dragged Sam out of the midst of the hubbub and into a quiet area out of the way. They breakfasted on bread, cheese and water and then Dean went and re-filled their water bottle, going to the edge of the river and dipping the flask beneath its fast moving surface. The boys washed up and tidied themselves by the side of the river and then Dean bade Sammy stay out of the way and went and lurked among the dock workers, listening for information. He soon learned that if he wanted to go to New York, he would have to go to St Louis first. There were a dozen or so steamboats moored at the waterfront and it didn't take him long to find out which of these would be docking at St Louis. He inspected the St Louis bound boats carefully and selected his target. He fetched Sam from his hiding place and the boys sat and watched, then picked their moment carefully and snuck onto the boat through a freight hatch.

The main deck looked a little like a large open shed. The forward section housed the boilers and engines, and below deck, where the boys had entered, were the holds for extra freight. Here, anything and everything could be found: pigs, cooped chickens, household goods, sacks, bales, boxes, barrels, stacked cordwood for the roaring fireboxes under the boilers—and the poorest of passengers. Deck passengers made the trip living in their own wagons, or sleeping on the planks. It was the cheapest passage possible and Dean was confident that a couple of kids would blend easily among the mess of unwashed humanity and livestock which mingled below deck.

Dean had learned that the journey to St Louis would take six to nine days because although it was only 336 miles by river from Kansas City to St Louis, the Missouri River was a powerful and dangerous stretch of water, with treacherous, shifting currents, low water points, submerged tree branches, snags and sandbars. This meant the boat had to anchor at night because not even the most foolhardy pilot would attempt to navigate the Missouri in the dark.

The first few days aboard the S.S. Amanda were a joy for the Winchester brothers. There were children and animals for Sammy to play with, there was a fascinating working steamboat to explore and there was an ever changing parade of scenery to watch from the main deck. The brothers saw wagon trains pass by, settlers huts, river bank towns in all shapes and sizes, a couple of black bears, elks, wild turkeys and on one memorable occasion a platoon of cavalrymen rode by. More memorable still was the day when a squadron of Indian braves paddled alongside the Amanda in their canoes.

Sammy smiled and waved at them and was promptly cuffed on the back of the head by a deck hand.

'You lookin' to get scalped, boy?' the deck hand demanded, 'they're treacherous them Injins. Grateful to trade with ya one day, blood thirsty and lookin' to kill ya the next.'

'Them Injins call our boats 'fire canoes',' one of the passengers commented, 'because they eat wood and water and puff out smoke.'

Dean subtly pulled Sammy away from the conversation before somebody started to wonder who the kid's Pa was and maybe thought to ask to see his ticket. There were no strangers in Sammy's world, only friends he hadn't met yet. For a runaway, it was a dangerous attitude, one that could get them into a world of trouble if they weren't careful.

The boys' favorite activity, though, was figuring out how the boat worked. Dean spent many a happy hour exploring the Amanda, although he stayed clear of the Cabin deck with its long central saloon and individual state rooms, unless he was looking to steal food, and he never ventured near the texas (officers' cabins) or the pilothouse either. In truth, there wasn't much of a mechanical nature to see in the pilothouse, although it might have been fun to get right up close to the billowing crowned chimneys. Steamboat pilots didn't use navigational equipment to steer their vessels, they used their own uncanny sixth sense and their hard won knowledge of the river's twists, turns, moods and depths.

Dean's favorite place on the boat was the boiler room, where firemen, all of them Negroes, fed wood into the roaring fireboxes which powered the engines. If he was quick he could usually avoid detection by the engineers and sneak into the boiler room to observe the workings of the engine. The firemen usually spotted him, but mostly they just smiled and winked and let him hide himself away and watch. The boiler room held four boilers and Dean imagined that it had a lot in common with Hell. Not only was the area dominated by the fireboxes' violent, spitting, orange flames, but each stroke of the steam engine discharged water and heat from the boiler into the atmosphere, which meant that the air was not only hot, but steamy and humid too.

Each boiler consumed tons of fuel and thousands of gallons of fresh water every hour and much of the firemen's time was spent force pumping water into the boiler against a sizeable amount of built up back pressure. This was a job for two men. To do this, they inserted long poles into the head of the pump and pushed up and down, working the pistons which drew water up from beneath the boat and injected it into the boiler. It was hard, laborious, sweaty work, and sometimes, when the river was low, they had to stop the boat and tie up while the engineers and firemen worked feverishly to clean all the mud from the pump, pipes and, boilers. Dean was fascinated. Engines, he decided, were awesome. Sam was less enthusiastic about the boiler room, but because he couldn't be left alone without deciding to talk to people, Dean frequently made Sam come with him when he stowed away to watch the engines. Fortunately a preacher man on the boat had given Sam a bible and Sam would sit quietly and read it while Dean happily watched injectors, steam jets, suction jets, combining jets, combination tubes, pistons and overflow valves.

With no parents and no money Dean and Sam were forced to resort to theft if they wanted to eat. Sometimes this meant stealing from other passengers, sometimes it meant getting into the cargo and sometimes it meant venturing up onto the Cabin deck and stealing the food meant for the rich folk.

On the fifth day of their river boat journey, Dean snuck up onto the Cabin deck in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, slipped into the kitchen, and quickly shoved some bread and cheese up inside his shirt. He paused at the door, looked right, and then left, before creeping quietly towards the stairs. He'd gone barely half a dozen steps when a large hand snagged him by the wrist and hauled him back into the kitchen, before shoving him up against the wall with a thud.

'Well, well, well,' said a sneering member of the Cabin crew, 'what do we have here?'

He reached up underneath Dean's shirt and pulled out the bread and cheese, placing it on the side with a sigh.

'Right, lad,' he said. 'Let's go and speak to your Pa, shall we?'

Dean said nothing. The crew member stared at him intently and Dean did his best to meet the man's gaze impassively. Whatever he was looking for, the crew member seemed to find it in Dean's face, for he nodded suddenly and released his hold on the boy.

'I see,' he said, 'a stowaway. By rights I could have you whipped, then handed over to the sheriff in the next town we dock at. Would you like that?'

Dean shook his head. A whipping he could handle, but being handed over to the sheriff and leaving Sammy on the boat? Or having Sammy handed over to the sheriff too? That he couldn't handle.

The man leered at him.

'Then maybe we could come to an arrangement.' He palmed his crotch with one hand and pushed Dean to his knees with the other.

-X-

Dean made it as far as the main deck before the urge to vomit overwhelmed him. He lurched to the side of the boat and hurled violently into the water, retching and spitting and hurling again as the taste…_oh God the taste_…flooded his mouth once more. Dean wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked around cautiously. Most people were still sleeping, although a few were starting to rouse. A woman nursing a baby was looking at him with pity, but no-one else was paying him any mind, just going about their early morning tasks in a half-lidded daze. Dean slipped quietly across the main deck, walking purposefully, not wanting to give the woman with the baby a chance to ask him whether she should fetch his Ma for him. He headed straight for Sammy, needing to check on him, to make sure he was alright. Kneeling next to his little brother's bedroll, he reached out a tentative hand and smoothed the sleeping boy's wayward hair. The touch soothed and comforted him, yet at the same time it magnified his feeling of shame and he withdrew his hand, feeling almost as though Sam would be sullied by his touch. Sam stirred slightly, moving instinctively towards his brother, seeking out the lost connection, and Dean stood up and backed away. He couldn't face Sammy yet, his emotions were too raw. Sam would take one look at his face and bug him endlessly until he told him what was wrong. And Dean was never…_never_…going to tell Sam what was wrong.

Dean's feet moved abruptly, choosing his path for him. He wasn't really surprised when they walked him straight into the hell pit of the boiler room. The rhythm of the engines soothed him, and even though they were still and silent now, their proximity was still relaxing. Dean curled up in his usual dark corner and stared at the engines. He imagined the way the valves opened and closed, envisioned the long, thick pistons thrusting back and forth, and suddenly he was on his feet again, bent at the waist, shoulders heaving, shaking and vomiting.

'You okay, kid?'

Dean raised his head. It was one of the firemen; the oldest and surliest of the eight Negroes who inhabited the below deck area. He didn't suffer fools gladly this man, and he had a smart mouth on him too; Dean had often found himself sniggering at the man's whip fast retorts and sarcastic comments.

'Yeah. Sorry.' he said.

The man nodded.

'Good. Then I'm gonna go get you a rag an' you can clean this mess up.'

He vanished into the darkness only to return a moment later with a dirty rag, which he tried to hand to Dean.

'You simple, boy?' he demanded when Dean just stared at him.

In truth, Dean was struggling to control his shaking. Last time a man had been this close to him—not so very long ago—he had been pushed to his knees and….

Dean threw up again.

The man sighed.

'You been on the hooch, boy?'

Dean shook his head.

'Look,' the man leaned over, 'it ain't that hard. You just gotta drop the rag down an' let it soak up all the…' his eyes bulged as he got a good look at the watery vomit on the floor. It was liberally laced with a creamy white fluid and the man's own stomach almost rebelled when he realized what that fluid was and how it must've gotten into the kid's stomach.

'Ah shit, kid,' he muttered, his voice surprisingly raw.

And that was it. The man knew. He knew and he understood what the cabin crew member had done to Dean; what he'd made Dean do.

Dean broke down. Wrecked, guttural sobs flooded from his very core, pushing their way up his throat and choking out of him with visceral intensity. Time was meaningless until a tentative arm snaked itself across his shoulders. A reluctant hand patted his back ineffectually and yet somehow it helped. Dean hauled himself back from the brink with a final stuttering sob and then wiped his face on his sleeve.

'Sorry,' he whispered, unable to look the man in the face.

He stared at the floor and realized that the man had placed the rag he'd been holding over the puddle of his vomit, hiding it from view.

Dean felt a hand on his chin and he tensed, but all the man did was raise his head and force Dean to meet his eyes.

'What's your name, kid?'

'Dean.' He probably should've lied, but he was too wrung out.

The man released his hold on Dean and held out his hand.

'Pleased to meet you, Dean. I'm Rufus. You wanna sit for a while?'

Dean shook the offered hand, then nodded and Rufus led the way to the back of the boiler room where he had his bedroll and a few bits and pieces set up.

'The young'uns all sleep on the other side,' Rufus said, 'I sleep way over here cuz I'm an ornery sonovabitch an' I don't generally like company. Take a seat.'

Dean lowered himself to the floor and leaned back against the wall. Rufus sat down next to him.

'You wanna talk about it?' Rufus asked.

'Not really.'

'Good. I ain't much with feelin's an' shit. I will say this though. It ain't your fault, Dean. You ain't the one who should be feelin' ashamed.'

Dean didn't respond. He wished he could believe Rufus, but his sense of humiliation was fierce and didn't know how to just stop feeling ashamed. Dean covered his face with his hands.

'You hear me boy?' Rufus demanded, and for a moment Dean was so strongly reminded of his Dad that a 'yessir' popped out of his mouth on pure reflex.

Rufus snorted. 'Sir. That's a new'un.' He cleared his throat. 'I, eh, I seen you hidin' down here watching the engines, your lil' brother too. Seen you on the deck a coupla times. Ain't never seen your folks.'

Dean tensed again and Rufus had his answer.

'Stowaways, huh? That's what…whoever…has over you?'

Dean risked a glance at his companion and when he saw nothing but compassion on the man's face he nodded.

Rufus sighed. 'You think the sonovabitch is gonna come after you again?'

Dean nodded. 'He said…tonight. Just after dusk.'

'He's gonna come an' get you?'

Dean shook his head.

'I gotta go to him.'

Rufus swore under his breath.

'You gonna go?'

Dean swallowed; then nodded.

'I don't wanna put Sammy in any danger. We should be in St Louis soon, right? It's only a couple more days. I…I can deal.'

Rufus shook his head and muttered a few choice words.

He reached into his duffle and pulled out a bottle.

'See this? Finest moonshine in the tri state area.'

He rummaged in his duffel again and came up with a smaller bottle, into which he poured a small measure of the clear liquid.

'I'm prob'ly gonna go to Hell for givin' you this…but…this here's for medicinal purposes. Take a coupla nips beforehand to calm your nerves. Take a coupla nips afterwards to…well…' Rufus handed the small bottle to Dean and then fixed him with a baleful glare. 'I catch you makin' a habit o' the hooch, it ain't gonna be pretty.'

'Yessir,' Dean responded with a grin.

Rufus chuckled sadly and ruffled his hair.

-X-

It didn't take a genius to see that there was something really off with Dean, and Sammy Winchester was very far from stupid. So he hovered over his brother like a broody hen, questioned everything, and was generally clingy and on the verge of a major tantrum the whole day. There was no way that Dean was going to be able to sneak off to—Dean pulled a face—pay for his steamboat passage, without Sam noticing. So Dean did the only thing possible. He pulled his brother aside and lied to him.

'I'm meeting a girl, Sammy. I'll only be gone half an hour. Please don't mess this up for me. _Please_ Sammy!'

True to his word, Dean was only gone for half an hour, but when he returned, he looked pale and shaken and his eyes were frighteningly blank.

'Are you alright?' Sam asked.

'Yeah. Fine.' Dean said dully.

Sam observed his brother silently for a moment.

'So I guess you won't be meeting up with girls anymore?'

'Huh? What makes you say that?'

'Well…you don't look very happy right now.'

'Right. Nearly got caught, that's all. It's all good Sammy.'

Sam very nearly called bullshit, but his brother's eyes were pleading with him to let it go, so he did, with a sigh. Dean relaxed and smiled gratefully.

'C'mon,' he said, 'There's something I gotta do. Come with me.'

Wild hell hounds couldn't have torn Sam away from Dean at that point, although he wasn't terribly happy when he realized that they were heading for the boiler room. Again. It was different down here at night, though. The boat was anchored, so the engines were quiet, and it was a lot cooler and less steamy than usual too. But that wasn't the biggest difference. The biggest difference was the party atmosphere. The firemen, who all labored so silently and strenuously during the day, really kicked things up at night. Someone was playing a banjo, the hooch was flowing, there was a lot of tobacco being chewed, and a lot of friendly arguing and laughing too. It all came to a halt when Dean and Sam appeared.

'Hi,' Dean said, 'I'm just here to see Rufus.'

Rufus appeared from behind him.

'Dean?'

Dean looked at Rufus, back towards the seven young guys who'd been laughing and chatting together and then back at Rufus emerging from the dark.

'Right,' he said, 'ornery sonovabitch.'

The other firemen all held their breath and Dean wondered for a minute if he'd overstepped. Then Rufus burst out laughing and slapped him on the back.

'What happened to 'yessir'?' he asked, 'Come with me, son. Kiddo,' he looked at Sammy, 'you stay here with the boys for a minute.'

'You okay?' Rufus asked when they had retreated to the privacy of his sleeping area.

Dean nodded and held the little bottle out to Rufus.

'It helped a bit. Can I have a refill?'

Rufus acquiesced and then said sternly, 'It's strictly medicinal, you understand? You go an' start makin' a habit out of it—'

'You'll kick my ass,' Dean finished, 'Yeah, I know.'

'Well alright then.'

They went back to the party and found Sammy ensconced in the middle of the guys. They were all of them, Sammy included, sporting cuts on their hands.

'What the devil is goin' on?' Rufus barked.

Sammy looked up at him with his big puppy dog eyes.

'I just wanted to see if we all had the same color blood,' he said.

Dean gaped at him.

'What? Why?'

Sammy frowned at him, like it should be obvious.

'Well, cuz we've got different colored skin, and different colored eyes and different colored hair. I just wanted to see if anything on the inside was a different color.'

'Oh,' Dean said sarcastically, 'Want me to peel back your flesh so you can check if y'all have got the same color bones?'

Sammy huffed irritably at him. 'I just think it's really cool,' he said, 'that God made us come in so many different colors on the outside, but inside we're all the same.'

'Amen to that,' said Rufus.

'Your Ma and Pa know you're down here?' one of the other firemen asked.

'They're stowaways, Solomon,' Rufus told him, before either Dean or Sam could respond.

Solomon laughed.

'Runaways, hey?' He punched Sam lightly on the arm, 'Where you running to, Sammy?'

'New York City.'

Solomon laughed again.

'What's so funny?' Dean demanded.

'Us,' he indicated the group, 'a bunch of colored guys,' he clarified, 'helping to smuggle a coupla white boys across the Mason–Dixon line. It's like,' he tilted his head to one side, 'It's like a reverse underground railroad!'

'It's a steamboat, not a steam train,' Sammy said helpfully.

Solomon laughed again. 'I ain't talkin' 'bout a actual railroad with a actual steam train,' he said, 'I'm talkin' 'bout the underground railroad. It's a…a…'

'Metaphor,' supplied Rufus.

'Right,' Solomon nodded, 'See white folks who was abolitionists, they would volunteer their homes to be safe houses. They was all connected in a network. All the safe houses had hidden entries, usually through the cellar, so that colored folk could get in an' out without anybody noticin'. An' all the safe houses had hidden passages that led to hidden rooms so that colored folk could hide there, outta sight, durin' the day.'

'Hidden passages?' Sam breathed, transfixed by Solomon's story, 'That's so cool!'

Solomon grinned at him.

'Runaway slaves would travel by night from one safe house to the next on their way north. So…the safe houses was kinda like train depots. The runaways would travel by foot or they'd be hidden inside wagons, but mostly they was by foot. An' they'd hide in a safe house during the day. An' that's the underground railroad. Nothin' to do with steam trains.'

'So uh, were any of you slaves?' Dean asked tentatively.

'All of us.'

'Any of you ever run away?'

Solomon shrugged. 'Most of us was freed durin' the war. Emancipation Proclamation and all that.'

Dean looked at Rufus, the question obvious in his eyes.

'Ran away a coupla times,' he said with forced nonchalance, 'and I got the scars on my back to prove it. Second time I ran away I joined the union army.'

'You were a soldier?'

Rufus nodded. '4th Regiment, Infantry, United States Colored Troops. Saw action in Virginia and North Carolina. In '65 I even got to see the surrender of General Johnston an' his army. That was sweet.'

He met Dean's enraptured gaze.

'Course, despite all their pretty talk they couldn't have a colored man leading the regiment so all our officers were white. And for a while there, we were paid a lot less than the enlisted white men,' he glanced at Sam, 'despite the fact that our blood was just as red as theirs whenever we all got shot or stabbed.'

Sam's eyes widened. 'That's not fair!' he complained.

Solomon laughed again. 'I like this boy.'

'Bastards won't give me my pension either,' Rufus muttered, 'assholes tol' me I got plenty years labor in me yet and there ain't no reason a strong colored man should expect to sit on his ass and let the government keep 'im. Course they sing a different tune if you're white.'

'That's so unfair!' Sammy raged, and no-one could mistake the cold fury in the little boy's voice.

'Life isn't fair, Sammy,' Dean said quietly. 'When are you gonna get that?'

'You know what ain't fair?' Rufus interrupted, 'I dragged my sorry ass all the way over here to socialize with you folk and no-one's offered me a drink yet. C'mon Eddie, get that banjo playin' again.'

Eddie dutifully started strumming away on his banjo, a couple of the other guys started singing and Solomon passed Rufus a bottle of moonshine, which he promptly complained about, labeling it the worst hooch he'd ever tasted.

'Bet if I put a match to it, it'd flame yellow,' he grouched.

He disappeared back to his bedroll, returning promptly with his own bottle of the distilled beverage.

'Now this? This is the good stuff,' he said, 'burns blue, tested it myself.'

He then proceeded to lecture everyone on the traits of good moonshine and from what Dean could tell, he really knew his stuff.

'What?' he said off Dean's stunned expression, 'You think I'm a heathen?'

It wasn't long before Sammy fell asleep. Dean covered him with a blanket and sat back, enjoying the company. He was just starting to think that he should probably carry his little brother back upstairs to his own bedroll and turn in for the night himself, when the clomping of boots on wooden rungs had him flattening himself into the shadows against the wall.

'Boys,' said one of the engineers, as he entered the room. The firemen all got to their feet, keeping the sleeping Sam hidden behind them.

'Whassup, Boss?' Solomon said.

The engineer cracked his knuckles and grinned gleefully.

'Got a race lined up, lads. When we leave New Haven tomorrow, we'll be racing the Magellan. First in to St Louis wins—and big bets've been laid, lads! We win, and there's a bonus in it for all of you!'

'You've gotta be kiddin'!' Rufus growled, 'You know the number three boiler's only been patch repaired!' and then as an afterthought he added, 'Sir.'

The engineer glowered at Rufus.

'There's big money riding on this. The captain's not gonna call this off anymore than he was gonna stop for three days to let us replace the boiler. We're just gonna have to make it work. Y'all hear me?'

'Yessir,' the men responded.

The engineer disappeared back up onto the deck and Rufus drew a deep breath.

'Goddamn stupid sonovabitch,' he muttered, before turning back to the others.

'We better get some rest. Cuz we're gonna have our work cut out for us tomorrow, tryin' to make sure this thing don't go up like the Sultana.'

'Dean?'

Dean stepped forward out of the shadows when Rufus called his name.

'Take Sammy up to bed,' he said. 'And tomorrow, you stay outta the boiler room. Tomorrow, you don't come nowhere near the boiler room. You stay on deck, close to the rails, and as far away from the engines as you can get, you hear me boy?'

Dean nodded.

'And if…if we blow, you take your little brother and you get off this boat. Can you swim?'

Dean nodded again.

'Then you swim, as far away as possible, as fast as possible.'

'No way,' Dean said shakily, 'Not before I make sure you're okay.'

Rufus rounded on him fast. 'I see you do anything other than look out for yourself and Sammy, and I will put you over my knee! I can take care of myself Dean. Now go on, get.'

Dean woke Sammy up and dragged the sleepy boy back up on deck. Sam soon fell back asleep, but Dean lay awake for hours, his mind churning. Today he'd been forced to do the most sickening, disgusting thing ever—twice—and he was horrified and humiliated more than he'd thought humanly possible. But that paled into insignificance when he considered the possibility that tomorrow, the Amanda may be blown sky high. And his new friends would be right at the epicenter of the blast.

-X-

News of the race had spread like wild fire and all of the passengers were buzzing with excitement: except for one.

Dean Winchester listened to the air horn start the race with a dry mouth and a roiling gut. When the steamboats took off, blowing their steam whistles, amid excited cheering and tossed hats, Dean dragged Sammy to the stern of the boat, as far away as possible from the boiler room. Sammy swung off the rails and waved at passengers on the other boat and Dean tried to make sure that he had a hand on his brother at all times. He wanted to be able to grab hold of him fast if the boat suddenly blew sky high.

Thick ribbons of smoke trailed out behind the two racing steamboats and bright orange sparks danced from the tall chimneys. The big sidewheels thrashed through the water, creating huge, churning, white wakes and water sprayed up over the bows of the boats, drenching all the rail side passengers. Sammy whooped with delight and Dean was equal parts exhilarated and terrified.

The crew were all running around like termites whose nest had been kicked over and Dean had never seen so many people going down to the boiler room to help the firemen. Even some of the passengers were helping to carry extra wood down, much of it dripping with sap. Dean hadn't seen the firemen use cords of sap-heavy pine wood before and he figured they'd been saving it for a race because the sap would burn that much hotter.

As the day progressed, the sick feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach lessened. He was still nervous, but so far the boilers were holding together and there was no hint that anything was about to go wrong. Besides, the party atmosphere on board the Amanda was contagious and it was hard not to get swept up in it.

The ports between New Haven and St Louis were mostly little ones and although they weren't scheduled to pick up any more cargo, or to deliver any, they did have mail to deliver in St Charles. But the captain had decreed that they weren't stopping anywhere they didn't have to, so the steamboat merely blew its steam whistle, slowed down, and a crew member threw the mail sack at the wharf, where it was caught (barely) by a wharf worker. Right on the very edge of the dock stood another worker, with an outgoing sack of mail which he heaved onto the deck of the Amanda as she glided past. The Amanda blew her whistle again and then it was full steam ahead once more.

Now it wasn't just cords of wood being taken down to the boiler room, sides of bacon, kegs of lard and tar barrels were being shuttled down too. Dean could tell the very minute the highly combustible fuel hit the furnaces; the boat surged ahead and the chimneys began to billow jets of thick, black smoke.

Twenty miles out from St Louis, the Amanda and the Magellan were neck and neck. The wooden railings creaked and groaned together and Dean realized that he could easily have climbed from one boat to the other. Suddenly, the Amanda lurched forwards, shaking violently and all of the passengers at the bow end of the ship cried out and rushed to the stern as intolerably hot air began to blast continuously out from the boiler room. Sam and Dean both clutched their ears as a loud shrieking, humming noise began to sound from the blowers and hot soot began to drift down onto the decks.

'Lord have mercy on our souls!' Dean heard a woman cry, 'If there is a single gentleman aboard, he will go and compel the captain to stop racing!'

Dean snorted. _Yeah, good luck with that lady_, he thought.

The Amanda strained and groaned and pushed past the Magellan, causing the other boat's sidewheel to splinter as the Amanda cut across her competitor's bow.

There was another eruption of thick, black smoke and the Amanda lurched forwards yet again, rapidly gaining a one, then two-length lead over the Magellan. Dean could hear faint yelling coming from the boiler room and his fear ratcheted up a notch. He took a firm hold of Sammy's upper arm and kept his keen eyes fixed on the hatch which led down to the engines. A moment later he noticed wisps of smoke coming from the trapdoor, and then it was abruptly thrown open and smoke and soot began to pour from it. Dimly, Dean could see figures staggering up from below deck and then the entire boat shook like an earthquake and flames began to erupt everywhere. Dean and Sammy were hurled violently across the deck, but Dean didn't let go of his brother, not even once. As soon as he was able he scrambled to his feet and, dragging his brother with him, he ran for the ship's rail.

'Climb up,' he urged Sammy, pushing the eight year old ahead of him.

Dean followed a heartbeat behind and as soon as the brothers were both standing atop the railing, Dean gripped his brother's hand and leapt into the river.

The river ran fast and the brothers were soon swept viciously downstream by the current. Behind them the paddle steamer was rocked by a series of deafening explosions and charred debris rained down on them. The boys went under water several times but Dean clung to Sammy tenaciously, determined not to let him go. Eventually they snagged on a partially submerged tree and clung to it desperately, holding on tightly until some folk on the river bank who'd come down to watch the race managed to get a length of rope out to them. Dean wrapped the rope around his waist, and then gripped Sammy firmly, wrapping his arms securely around his little brother and not even letting go when they were safely on shore. The brothers sat shivering on the banks of the Missouri and watched blankly as face down bodies and burnt and broken corpses floated past them. When Dean spotted the mangled body of the crew member who'd been demanding 'payment' for their passage floating sightlessly past, he felt such a grim, visceral satisfaction that he nearly threw up. He gave a whole body shudder and pulled Sammy closer, burying his nose in the kid's wet hair and breathing in the scent of his innocence, trying to regain his own by osmosis. A hand to his shoulder made him flinch badly and a kind-faced woman knelt by his side and spoke to him as if he were a skittish colt, encouraging him to bring his little brother and stand by the fire they'd built, to dry off, so they wouldn't catch a chill. Dean allowed them to be propelled across to the fire. The woman handed them a mug of tea each and they stood side by side, shivering and sipping their tea while their wet clothes slowly dried.

'All those people,' Sam whispered. 'They were having so much fun. And now…' he met Dean's eyes, 'Do you think…Rufus and Solomon and all them…do you think…'

Dean sucked in air. 'I think some of 'em made it out the boiler room. After that…' he shrugged. He turned to the woman who'd been fussing over them.

'Ma'am, thanks for the tea and the fire. We're gonna go now and see if we can find our family.'

The woman's eyes darted to Sam and Dean could see that she wasn't too keen on the idea of letting a little kid wander around the scene of a tragedy. He drew himself up and met her eyes. 'It's my job to mind my little brother. And we've gotta find our family. We'll come back here if we can't, promise.'

She nodded reluctantly and Dean tugged on Sam's hand and pulled him down along the river bank.

The river and its banks were a mess of scorched wood, battered luggage, dead, dying and injured animals, dead, dying and injured people, and bystanders trying frantically to help. Sam kept his eyes firmly on his feet and Dean's skittered over the unpleasant sights, as he searched desperately for some sign of Rufus. He almost missed him at first, draped over a partially submerged tree branch, maybe thirty feet from the river bank, with only his upper body visible. Dean ran to the very edge of the water, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled:

'Rufus!'

The fireman lifted his head and managed a tired smile.

'I'm gonna come and get you, okay?' Dean shouted.

Rufus shook his head and scowled and, okay, Dean absolutely wasn't going to discount the threat Rufus had made yesterday, wasn't about to do anything that might cause Rufus to wallop him, but he wasn't going to let the man drown either. He looked around and saw passengers and bystanders valiantly rescuing luggage while assiduously ignoring the Negro in the water. Dean's expression hardened.

'Hey!' he yelled, 'I need some help here. That's Rufus…he works for my Dad. We need to get him outta the water…'

Just that vague hint that Rufus may possibly be considered the property of a white man and all of a sudden his status was elevated to that of the luggage and the passengers and bystanders turned their attention to pulling him out of the water. The realization hit Dean like a sledgehammer and he was disgusted. He felt a sudden sense of kinship with Rufus because he too knew what it felt like to be treated as something less than human; that's exactly how they were treated in the poorhouse, as if their suffering were somehow less than the suffering of others because _they_ were somehow less than others. It was truly sickening the way some people thought and it filled Dean with helpless rage as he watched Rufus slowly dragged ashore.

'Where's your Pa, son?' one of the men asked Dean.

'New York. Rufus is taking us to him.'

'And your Ma?'

'She died when Sammy was a baby.'

The man nodded and turned his attention to Rufus.

'How badly are you injured? Are you fit enough to take care of your charges? '

'Yessir,' Rufus nodded. 'I copped a blast of steam across my back and a mild concussion from the explosion, but I'm alright.'

'Are you really okay?' Dean asked as soon as the bystanders had gone.

Rufus nodded.

'Back's none too comfortable, but ain't nothing seriously wrong with me.'

He eyed Dean speculatively for a moment. 'Nice work, by the way. You're good at thinkin' on your feet.'

Dean grinned.

They went back to the fire, got Rufus dried and expanded on their cover story with the kindly woman, explaining that Rufus worked for their Dad on their farm in Minnesota, but that times had been tough, what with the war and all the Indian trouble. Their Dad had gone ahead to New York to buy a dairy farm and make a new life for them. He'd then sold the farm back in Minnesota and sent a message to Rufus to bring the boys to him.

Rufus, it seemed, had just as much of a gift for storytelling and embellishment as Dean did and Sam wished that he felt as comfortable with lying as they seemed to.

'So what _are_ your plans?' Rufus asked quietly when he and the boys were alone by the fire.

'We really are goin' to New York.'

'How you gettin' there from here?'

Dean shrugged.

'Got a whole bunch of people here needin' to get to St Louis. I figure some way or another we'll find a way there. Then we hop on another steamboat and stowaway 'til New York.'

Rufus stroked his chin and regarded Dean thoughtfully.

'Uh huh. You realize how much farther it is from St Louis to New York than from Kansas City to St Louis? You were on the Amanda for—what—four, five, days before you got caught out—'

'What?' Sam interrupted, 'You got caught? Dean?'

Rufus continued as though the interruption hadn't occurred. 'You really think you can last _twenty_ days on a new steamship, dodging the crew, stealing food, without being found out?'

Dean raised his chin, his eyes scared but defiant. 'I'll take care of it. Whatever happens, I'll take care of it.'

'Oh kid,' Rufus's tone was so very sad, 'you really think that what happened on the Amanda is the worst that can happen?'

'What happened on the Amanda?' Sam demanded.

'What if it was Sammy who got cornered?'

Dean's whole body tightened visibly. 'I would rip their goddamn lungs out!'

'What the hell is goin' on?' Sam yelled.

'Nothin',' Dean said curtly.

Sam punched his arm.

'Bull. Shit. Who found us out? What did they do to you?'

Dean's face closed up completely.

'Leave it, Sammy. We're not talkin' about this.'

Sam's face was furious.

'You're _my_ brother too, you know,' he spat. 'It's not all about you lookin' after me! You gotta let me watch your back sometimes too ya know!'

Rufus spoke up before Dean could respond.

'I got an alternative,' he said. 'I got me a job on the Mary Morgan, headin' up to Pittsburgh outta St Louis. I know the chief engineer, he's an okay guy. Owes me one; though whether he'll still see it that way is anyone's guess. But if he does…I could maybe talk him into getting you work aboard the ship in exchange for free passage for you and Sammy.'

Dean's eyes narrowed.

'Why would you do that for us?'

Rufus looked sad again.

'Same reason you helped me out back there. Cuz it's the right thing to do.'

'Dean?' Sam said into the silence.

His big brother met his eyes.

'Are you okay?' It wasn't the question he really wanted to ask, but it was the one he thought he had a chance of getting answered.

Dean nodded briefly and then turned back to Rufus.

'How far is it from Pittsburgh to New York?'

Rufus shrugged. 'Four, five hundred miles. Take you maybe five or six days on horseback. Longer if you was walkin. I'm headin' out to Stringtown—got a friend out there workin' in the mines who I'm lookin' to hook up with—so I can't help you further than Pittsburgh, but there's gotta be plenty merchants headin' out to New York from Pittsburgh wouldn't mind givin' you a lift,' he saw the cynical grimace touch Dean's lips and sighed. 'Some folks is just good hearted ya know.'

He decided to ignore Dean's disbelieving snort.

'So whatdya say? You boys wanna stick with me as far as Pittsburgh?'

Dean looked away, eyes gazing out over the Missouri River, taking in all the debris and wreckage and beyond that, the wilderness. He'd brought his brother a long way and he'd kept him safe, but they still had so much further to go. Maybe sticking with Rufus for a while wouldn't be such a bad thing, maybe it would be better for Sammy if they had a grown up with them for a spell. Dean glanced at his brother and saw the hurt in the younger boy's eyes. He'd caused that hurt and he knew it, but there was no way in Hell he was going to tell Sammy what had happened. He was determined that at least one of them was going to have some semblance of a childhood and the ship had sailed on it being him a long time ago. If they tried to go it alone and got caught again…if someone tried to make Sammy…Dean suppressed a shudder. His mind shied away from imagining what could be worse than what he'd been forced to do, but he didn't doubt that Rufus knew what he was talking about. And the thought that someone might want something like that from Sammy! Dean returned his attention to Rufus.

'Okay,' he said, 'we'll stick with you.'

Rufus snorted softly.

'You're welcome, kid,' he said.

-X-

The owners of the Amanda organized a couple of stage coaches to take stranded passengers down to St Louis, starting with the most seriously injured and working their way down through degrees of injury, then degrees of wealth. Dean, Sam and Rufus were in the very last stage coach, which, Dean figured, was fair enough given that technically he and Sam were stowaways, not passengers. But given that all of the ship's paperwork had gone down with the ship and the number of dead hadn't quite been sorted out yet, no-one was asking any questions.

Before boarding the coach, Rufus and the boys had spent some time collecting bits of 'their' luggage from among the debris and had managed to gather together a couple of bags full of useful bits and pieces, although the fireman was still mourning the loss of his moonshine. Fortunately, Rufus had a miser purse which he wore over his belt and never took off, so upon their arrival in St Louis he had sufficient coin to get them a small room at a cheap boarding house. They had to give their—now well-practiced—cover story to the house Mistress, because she was curious as to why a black man was traveling with two white boys. The sinking of the Amanda explained nicely why they had so little luggage, though, and the boarding house mistress was sufficiently moved by their tale of woe that she put together a quick meal for them, even though it was long past supper time. It was the best thing Dean and Sam had eaten in a long time, and the cozy kitchen reminded Dean of _home_ and _before_ so strongly that it was all he could do not to get tears in his eyes.

Their stomachs full, Rufus sent the boys up to their room and told them to stay put while he went out to see if he could find his friend. He wanted to talk to him as soon as possible about getting Dean work on the Mary Morgan.

There were only two beds in the room, a single bed and a small cot, and Rufus had told them, in his no nonsense tone, that they would take the beds and he would sleep on the floor. Dean had tried to argue, but that had just got him threatened with a tanned hide again, and besides, after a day like today, there was no way Sammy would end up sleeping in his own bed, so Dean shrugged it off. When Rufus returned later that night his young charges were fast asleep in the single bed, nestled together like spoons. Big spoon Dean had his arms tightly wrapped around his younger brother and in the flickering candlelight of the room their faces looked angelically serene. Rufus sat down on the cot and stared at the boys, marveling how much younger Dean looked when you couldn't see his stony, cynical eyes. Rufus was a hard man with a hard heart; he'd had to be to survive; but looking at the sleeping boys opened cracks in an armor that he'd thought would never be breached, and he grieved for the life these children deserved but would never have. Like him, they had been born into circumstances which meant their lives would never be easy. No sirree, Rufus sighed and stretched himself out on the cot, careful of his scalded back, for the Winchester brothers, life would be nothing but one long battle after another.

-X-

Rufus's friend Daniel Elkins was another rough and ready tough man and in many ways he reminded Dean of his father. The 4th Infantry Regiment of the United States Colored Troops had fought alongside Daniel Elkin's regiment in Virginia, and Rufus had saved Elkins's life. When not at war, Elkins was a steamboat engineer and he'd told Rufus that if he was ever in need of a job, he should look him up. Elkins was now chief engineer on the Mary Morgan and Rufus had telegrammed him some while back to let him know that he'd be taking him up on that job offer. After some back and forth communication it had been arranged and Rufus had been told when he needed to be in St Louis. They'd caught up for a drink while the boys were asleep in the boarding house and Rufus had filled him in on their situation. Now they were meeting with him down at the docks because Elkins wanted to get a good look at Dean before he promised him a job. So far, Elkins was impressed; the boy had met his cold, unwavering gaze unflinchingly and he'd answered all of Elkins' questions intelligently and politely.

'Okay,' Elkins said finally, 'you've got a job. Your payment'll be free passage for you and your little brother, including meals. I expect you to work hard. If you don't I'll throw your ass off the ship, next port we stop at. You clear?'

'Yessir.'

Elkins nodded and then spoke to Rufus.

'We leave at dawn tomorrow so I want all my men on board tonight. I'll expect you here around eight, okay?'

'Yessir.'

Elkins grinned and stuck his hand out to Rufus.

'It'll be good to work with you again, buddy. And you,' he offered his hand to Dean, 'Welcome aboard.'

He noticed Sam's pout and shook the little boy's hand too, hoping that the kid could keep himself entertained and stay out of trouble.

-X-

For Sam, the weeks aboard the Mary Morgan were like the best holiday he'd ever had. He wasn't a stowaway so he didn't have to be careful about talking to people, nor did he have to worry about stealing food, and he didn't have time to be bored. Sometimes he watched Dean, Rufus and the other firemen working down in the engine room, sometimes he helped to look after the livestock, sometimes he played with the other children and, being Sam, he made friends with just about everyone.

On the fourth day of the trip Sam was curled up in a nice sunny spot on deck, reading the bible he'd been given, when a man sat down next to him and introduced himself as Pastor Jim.

'I see you're reading the Good Book,' he added.

Sam shrugged.

'To be honest,' he said conspiratorially, 'It's not actually all that good.'

Pastor Jim laughed.

'Really? And why is that, son?'

Sam frowned.

'Well, for starters, it's got all this stuff about people 'begating' other people and I have no clue what that means. And there was this part where some angels let a man give his daughters to an angry mob to save themselves, and, well, I didn't expect angels to be dicks. And it doesn't make sense. How on Earth can we all come from Adam and Eve? They had two sons, but…there were no girls for them to marry! It doesn't make one whit of sense.'

Pastor Jim laughed and ruffled Sam's hair.

'You're clearly a thinking man. What's your name, son?'

'Sam.'

'Well, Sam, have you considered the possibility that some of the stories in the Bible are simply that? Simple ways of explaining simple truths to people?'

Sam tilted his head.

'Like what?'

'Like, all of us, all people, are one people. And we should love one another as we would love our own brothers and sisters.'

'Oh. I guess that makes more sense.'

'Don't get me wrong; some parts of the Bible tell us the word of God and others tell us of Jesus's words—but some parts are just stories—parables.'

After that Sam and Pastor Jim spent some time every day talking about religion—and life in general. Sam came to like and trust the man very quickly and he soon found himself telling him all about his thirst for knowledge and his dreams of going to school. A few days after that conversation, Pastor Jim introduced Sam to Miss Kathleen. Miss Kathleen was travelling to Pittsburgh to take on a position as Governess to a wealthy family. It was to be her first position and she asked Sam, very gravely, if he would mind if she practiced her lessons on him. Sam was delighted to agree and spent the rest of the trip having daily school lessons. Miss Kathleen found him to be a very apt pupil and an absolute joy to teach. When she discovered that his older brother was working as a fireman on the boat, she offered after-work lessons to Dean as well, but Dean wasn't interested; not in the lessons anyway. He did practice his flirting with Miss Kathleen though, which made her blush furiously. The hard physical work that Dean was doing and the regular meals he was getting, meant that he was bulking up substantially, and even though he was only twelve, he had a cockiness about him that made him seem much older. He was pleased, though, that Sammy was getting lessons and very proud when Miss Kathleen told him how smart his little brother was.

After twenty days on the river, the Mary Morgan arrived in Pittsburgh having enjoyed a routine, incident-free voyage. As the passengers disembarked, Sammy said a tearful farewell to Miss Kathleen and Pastor Jim and then waited while Rufus and Dean finished up their duties before they too said good bye to the boat which had been their home for nearly a month. The boys spent a night in a Pittsburgh boarding house with Rufus, before Rufus said his own gruff, but heartfelt farewells and left to head out to Stringtown.

And once again the boys were on their own.

-X-

When the scrawny, brown dog approached, Sam was glad of the company. He'd been sitting alone, legs dangling off the veranda, out front of the general store for nearly an hour, while Dean was down at the markets trying to find someone willing to give them a lift to New York City.

'Well look at you, boy!' Sam cooed, 'Ain't you just a bag o' bones! You got a name buddy? No? Hmm. Think I'll call you Bones. Are you hungry Bones?'

Earlier that morning, at the Boarding House, Sam, Dean and Rufus had eaten a huge breakfast and all three of them had squirreled away chunks of bread, cheese, and cold cuts when the house mistress wasn't looking. Sam now shared some of his ham with the emaciated dog and the dog promptly became his best friend. The two of them played happily out the front of the general store until the store keeper came and chased them off. Sam and Bones wandered a little way away, but not too far because Dean had told Sam to stay put.

By the time Dean returned it was late afternoon. He smiled at Sam, ruffled his hair and told him that there'd been a slight change in plan.

Dean had been talking to merchants all day but not a one of them was headed to New York. Most folks sent their goods to New York on a river boat, back up the Ohio, down the Mississippi to New Orleans, and then out into the Gulf of Mexico, around the Florida peninsula and up the East coast to New York City.

The boys walked a little way out of town and spent the night in a farmer's hay barn, with Bones the dog stretched between them for warmth. The next morning they were up before day break. They finished the small amount of food left over from the day before, and stole a handful of corn each from the hog trough, before getting back on the road and heading, on foot, towards Monroeville. Bones followed them part of the way and then stopped, whining and looking behind him.

'Good boy,' Dean encouraged, 'Go home.'

'I don't think he has a home,' Sam said softly.

Dean was silent a moment.

'Well,' he said finally, 'It's better if he doesn't follow us. We can't feed him, Sam. We can barely feed ourselves.'

Sam knew his brother was right, but that didn't stop his bottom lip from trembling. He nodded, though, and approached the dog slowly, dropping to his knees and enveloping the animal in a huge hug.

'You can't come with us,' he told his new friend tearfully. He gave him one final squeeze and then sat back on his haunches.

'Go on, boy,' he said, 'Go home.'

The dog backed away and looked enquiringly at Sam.

'I'm goin' with my brother,' Sam told him, 'You go on home now.'

The dog turned and ran a short way before turning to look back at Sam.

'Go on,' Sam said and Bones turned and ran without stopping.

Sam watched until he was out of sight, staying seated in the dirt until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'C'mon,' Dean said, 'Let's get going.'

-X-

The brothers slept that night, hidden under the straw in another farmer's hay barn, just outside Monroeville. At daybreak they helped themselves to a drink of water from the horses' trough and Dean kept watch while Sammy pilfered some eggs from the henhouse. They walked for a couple of hours, headed in the direction of Altoona, and then stopped for breakfast. They boys gathered armfuls of wood and kindling and Dean used a box of matches that he'd stolen from the Boarding house, to start a small fire. Soon they had two eggs each frying on a tin plate.

'Bones could've hunted rabbits for us,' Sammy said wistfully.

Dean snorted. 'Bones couldn't even hunt rabbits for himself,' he said, 'Or you wouldn't've been calling him Bones.'

The boys had been walking for several hours and Sammy had started to complain that he needed a rest, when the nickering of a horse and the clatter of rickety wheels announced the slow approach of a wagon. The boys scrambled to the side of the track and watched as a covered wagon rolled sedately past. The words 'Dr Gulliver's Miraculous Health Elixir' were painted in fancy red letters on the side of the wagon, and in smaller letters underneath, 'good for what ails you.' On the driver's seat sat a portly man, dressed in tweed, and sporting an impressive walrus moustache.

'Good morning, lads,' he said jovially, reining his horse to a stop and doffing his hat to reveal a startling lack of hair, 'Could you pray direct me to your father's farm? I fancy I've a cure-all here which your mother may be pleased to hear tell of.'

'Uh yeah,' Dean replied, 'It's in New York. We're on our way to join him there.'

The man, who Dean presumed was Dr Gulliver, raised an eyebrow.

'New York, you say? Well. That's a long walk you have ahead of you and no mistake.'

Dean nodded.

'You couldn't give us a lift to Altoona could you?'

Dr Gulliver scratched his chin and eyed Dean's arm muscles with some trepidation.

'Well now,' he began, 'I'm not sure—'

'Please?' Sammy let loose with his most beguiling, beseeching puppy dog eyes, 'It's such a long way and I'm so little.'

'Well I suppose—' he broke off as Sam climbed up onto the driver's seat and sat down next to him.

'Thank you!' the boy beamed.

Dean quickly followed suit, climbing up onto Dr Gulliver's other side.

'Thank you,' he echoed his younger brother, 'we won't be a bother to you, I promise.'

Dr Gulliver, once he felt assured that Dean was not about to rob him in his sleep, proved most amiable company, and the boys travelled with him, not just to Altoona, but to Huntingdon, Harrisburg, Lebanon and Allentown.

On their first night, huddled close to the campfire for warmth, Dr Gulliver downed several shots of hooch 'to light a fire in his cold belly', he told the boys sagely, and was most impressed when Dean turned down his offer of a shot.

'Quite right, son,' he nodded wisely, 'it's the devil's draught, it is; best to stay away from it.'

After his third shot he became quite chatty, confessing that his name was really Bill Jones, but that the moniker he had been baptized with didn't have quite the same ring of authority as _Dr Gulliver_, which he invited the boys to consider his trading name. The boys also discovered, that first night, that Bill was missing the little toe on his left foot and he had a different story every day to explain how that had happened. One day he claimed it had been taken by vicious cannibal Indians, when he'd fought against them in the Indian wars; another day it had been snatched by an alligator, which had leapt from the water into his fishing boat down in New Orleans. The tales were always long and grandiose and the boys loved listening to them.

Dean and Sam pulled their weight by fetching wood and water and helping Bill to bottle his elixir and paste labels onto each newly-filled bottle. Dr Gulliver was cagey and secretive whenever it came time to mix a new batch of his elixir, and he eschewed their help with that particular task. As best as Dean could make out from his spying, the elixir was nothing more complicated than rum, molasses, baking soda and sugar.

Sam soon took to looking after Dobin, the horse, and it wasn't long before Dean was helping the good doctor with his sales pitches. It helped to have an off-sider who could give testimonial as to the effectiveness of the product and Bill had quickly discovered that not only did Dean have the gift of the gab, but he drew the attention and affections of both the matrons and the maidens, and they were all too willing to buy anything the boy recommended. And if Bill Jones noticed that the boy attracted the same sort of attention from a number of men, if he saw the way they watched hungrily as Dean's tongue licked across his bottom lip, well, it wasn't his place to say anything, although he did make sure to keep the boy close whenever he noticed any man loitering with a certain predatory look in his eye.

It was with quite some sorrow that Dr Gulliver and the Winchesters parted company just outside of Allentown. Bill had become quite fond of the boys and had tried to persuade them to come to Rochester with him, but Dean insisted that they had to join their father in New York. Bill Jones knew a tall tale when he heard one (he was something of an expert on the subject) but Dean was adamant, and Bill eventually gave up, with a sigh. He gave Dean some coin for his efforts, profit sharing, he said, along with a couple of bottles of the Elixir. Then he wished them the very best of luck before wheeling Dobin around and heading for Rochester.

Dean used the money to buy canvas and rope, so that he could construct a small lean-to or tent to keep them dry, should it rain over night. Supplies purchased, the Winchesters hitched their duffels on their shoulders and made their way on foot toward New York. It was now mid-August and Dean hoped they would arrive at their destination within three or four days, sooner if they didn't have to walk the whole way. The journey had been going well, with some notable lowlights, and the ease of the last few weeks had lulled Dean into a false sense of security.

Two days walk out of Allentown the boys ran out of food again and they were trying between them to catch a rabbit, with nothing but their bare hands and a large stick, when a gun shot rang out and felled their prey. Once he'd got over his fright at the loud gun boom, Sammy fell upon the dead rabbit with delight, only to freeze when a bearded man in a ragged Union uniform ran out of the bushes and launched himself at the rabbit.

'Hey!' Sam squeaked as the soldier wrested the small, bloody mammal from his grasp. 'That's our rabbit!'

'Ain't your bullet, ain't your kill,' the soldier growled.

'But we flushed it out,' Dean subtly inserted himself in between his brother and this new, unknown threat.

The soldier smirked and patted him on the head.

'Good doggies. Now back off.'

'But we're hungry,' Sam's eyes were big and imploring.

'Tough,' the soldier said. He pushed Sam away viciously, and Sam went flying. He hit the ground with a hard thud and his eyes widened as the wind was knocked out of him.

'Sammy!' Dean was at his brother's side immediately, helping him to sit up and get his breath back. The soldier took advantage of their distraction to turn tail and run, disappearing through the trees as quickly as he'd appeared.

Sam narrowed his eyes and stood up, and before Dean had a chance to realize his intention, his little brother had rushed after the soldier.

'Sammy! Wait!'

Dean flew after him, winding his way through the trees and keeping his eyes firmly glued on the younger boy's retreating back. After a few minutes of hard running, Dean burst into a clearing to find a tent, a campfire, a horse, and Sam and the soldier going toe to toe.

'Sammy,' he said softly, 'Leave it.'

'No!' Sam spat, 'he stole our food. He's a disgrace to his uniform!'

The soldier sneered.

'What do you know kid? Now back off. This rabbit's mine and I ain't sharin'!'

'Well you should!' Sam insisted, 'we shared in the work of catching that rabbit, we should share in the eating of it! That's how normal folk do it!'

'Well, I ain't normal,' the soldier said flatly.

'C'mon, Sammy. Leave it.' Dean took a gentle hold of his brother's arm and started to tug him away.

Whatever the soldier had been like before the war, it was clear that he now had no compassion. Sam was trying to appeal to the man's better nature, but it was obvious to Dean, that he didn't have one. They were wasting their time here, and the sooner they got back to their hunting, the better their chances of eating today.

'Of course,' Dean looked up, startled, at the soldier's sudden words, 'if it turns out y'all have something I need, then maybe we could come to some arrangement.'

The soldier was staring fixatedly at Dean's bottom lip, which Dean was currently worrying with his teeth.

'What do you need?' Sam asked

The soldier met Dean's eyes and leered. Just to be certain, Dean ran his tongue around his lips and let his mouth fall open slightly. The soldier grinned triumphantly.

'Oh yeah,' he said, 'I knew it! Pretty mouth like that, no chance I'd be the first. We're on the same page o' the hymn book and I'm gonna be singing hallelujah soon enough!'

'What's going on?' Sam demanded, 'What's he talkin' about Dean?'

'Food first,' Dean said, and the soldier nodded.

'Dean?'

Dean sat down on a rock a little way back from the fire and watched as the soldier skinned and chopped the rabbit.

'Dean?'

'Forget about it Sammy. It's all okay. He's gonna give us some food.'

The soldier had a cast iron pot of boiling water in the fire and he tipped the chopped rabbit, some salt and a couple of handfuls of corn into the mix

'Why?' Sam persisted. 'What are you gonna give him?'

'Shut up, Sammy. I got this. Just…forget about it.'

'But—'

'I said shut up about it!'

Sam subsided in sullen silence and Dean immediately felt like an asshole, but this just wasn't something he and Sam could talk about. He felt sick with anxiety at what he was going to have to do and he was thankful that he had a couple of bottles of Dr Gulliver's Elixir in his duffel; at least that should drown out the taste afterwards. He wouldn't mind a nip or two before hand either, just to steady his nerves, but their duffels were back on the other side of the copse of trees, back where the soldier had shot the rabbit.

They sat quietly until the rabbit stew was ready. The soldier heaped a generous serving onto a plate for himself and ate quickly before slopping another serving onto the plate and handing it off to Dean. The brothers scooped the stew up with their hands and shoveled it into their hungry mouths as fast as they could. Dean let Sammy have the most; the kid was a growing boy and besides, Dean's appetite was a little reduced, thanks to the anxiety roiling in his gut.

When Dean handed the plate back to the soldier, the man took hold of his wrist.

'Time to hold up your end of the bargain.'

Dean nodded.

'Sammy? Could you go and get our duffels? We left them back where we killed the rabbit.'

Sam stared at him.

'Okay,' he said finally, 'but you come with me.'

Dean shook his head.

'Don't be a baby. I need you to go get our duffels. I'm gonna…talk…to…this guy…about something. Go on now.'

Sam's eyes were huge and round and they silently begged Dean not to send him away.

'Please, Sam. _Please_?'

Sam got to his feet, very reluctantly, and dawdled to the edge of the copse of trees. He looked back briefly and at Dean's nod, he began to run.

Dean turned to face the soldier.

'Come on, then,' he said. 'We don't have long.'

-X-

Eight-year-old Sammy Winchester was not as innocent as his older brother supposed. How could he be, when he'd spent the last couple of years living in a Poorhouse; a crowded establishment teeming with the poorest, least educated, and roughest of people? There were children mixed with adults, men and women, boys and girls, the weak and the sick, village idiots, and those who made others cross themselves; those who heard voices in their heads and were said to be possessed by demons. Sammy didn't always have Dean at his side and there were things Sam had seen that he'd never discussed with his big brother. He knew, in a round-about way, that men and women (and boys and girls) liked to touch each other's privates. He knew that sometimes a couple of boys would do the same because he'd seen it in the dormitories, and while he didn't understand why people seemed to enjoy doing it so much, it didn't disturb him.

What _had_ disturbed him was the girl who'd cried silently with her fist stuffed in her mouth while one of the wardens had rocked back and forth between her spread legs, his hands firmly gripping her hips. They had been at the very end of a dark corridor; Sam was only there because he'd gotten lost; and the girl's skirts had prevented Sam from seeing precisely what the man had been doing. But when he'd finally moved away from her his thing had been out, and Sam had watched him tuck himself away before handing the girl a whole loaf of bread. The girl had cried for a good while after the warden had left and had then pulled herself together, a blank look settling on her face, before she had torn into the bread. Sam had only been seven at the time, but he wasn't stupid. The girl had been giving the warden the only thing she had—her body—in exchange for food. And the blank expression on her face…he'd seen it on Dean's face too; back on the Amanda—and just now.

God_damn_ it! Sam ran faster. The soldier wanted something from Dean, and Sam was smart enough to know that the only thing Dean had to give was himself.

Tree branches whipped at Sam's arms and legs as he ran, but he didn't care. He was going to get their stuff and get back to his brother as fast as humanly possible; because Dean was his brother, and Sam loved him, and he hated the way Dean seemed to think that it was okay for him to sacrifice himself for them, as if he were somehow worth less than his little brother. Sam gritted his teeth and ran faster. Whatever Dean was going to let the soldier do to him, Sam was going to stop it. Just see if he didn't.

When he finally burst back into the soldier's campsite, the first thing he saw was Dean, on his knees, in front of the soldier. The second thing he saw was the soldier's lowered trousers and he couldn't quite contain the strangled moan of horror that slipped from his lips. The soldier's head came up sharply and Dean whipped around to face his brother, his face flushed with shame. Even from ten feet away, Sam could see the way his brother's lips glistened with saliva.

'Sammy,' Dean's voice was wrecked and it spurred Sam into action. He lunged for the soldier's rifle, which was leaning against a log next to his tent, and pointed it straight at him.

'Get away from my brother!' he shouted.

The soldier chuckled.

'Ain't nothin' happening here he didn't agree to.'

'Get away from him!' Sam reiterated.

The soldier sighed. 'You point a gun at someone,' he said, 'you better be prepared to shoot 'em.'

Sam frowned. He had no qualms about shooting the soldier, but he had no idea how to actually make the rifle fire. He was also worried that he might hit his brother. The soldier saw his look of vexation and smirked, before turning his attention back to Dean.

'Ain't gonna suck itself,' he rasped, 'I'll deal with the brat when we're finished. He's gonna learn that you don't touch another man's weapon; don't point it at him, less you mean it.' He looked back up at Sam, 'Boy's gonna be cuttin' me a switch.'

He turned his eyes back to the boy kneeling at his feet, just in time to see Dean clench his fists together and slam them upwards. The soldier screamed in pain, his face whitening and his eyes rolling back in his head as Dean punched him hard in the balls. He fell onto his knees and Dean drove the heel of his palm into the man's nose, knocking him onto his back and leaving him dazed. The soldier had a knife in his boot and Dean relieved him of it, before backing away and joining his brother.

'Give me the gun, Sammy.'

Sam handed it over without a word.

'Go through his stuff,' Dean said, 'take anything worth having and put it in our duffels.'

Sam complied, finding some food, a small box of copper rimfire cartridges, a box of matches, and a good winter coat that looked like it'd fit Dean.

'Pack everything into the saddle bags,' Dean said, 'and saddle up the horse.'

The soldier had recovered himself a little, and he struggled into a sitting position.

'Boy,' he said, 'if you point a gun at someone—'

Dean worked the shell extraction leaver and then cocked the hammer.

'Spencer rifle, right?' he said, 'as used by the cavalry and mounted infantry regiments. It's a seven-shot repeat shooter, feeds with a seven-round tube system and is made in both rifle and carbine versions. This is the rifle version. It's got a sustainable rate-of-fire in excess of 20 rounds per minute and a range of two hundred yards. Move again and I'll put a hole in your chest. And from this range? We both know I can't miss.'

'Can I at least pull up my trousers?'

'No.'

The soldier's mouth snapped shut and he sat still, looking at Dean with impotent rage.

From the corner of his eye Dean watched as Sam finished packing the horse and then untethered her and walked her toward him.

'Dean? Can we go?'

'Sure Sammy.'

Dean fired the rifle over the head of the soldier and watched in satisfaction as he dove, face down into the dirt, and covered his head with his hands. The rifle now safe, Dean mounted the horse, pulled Sammy up in front of him and dug his heels into the horse's flank, urging her into a cantor.

'I'll see you hung for this!' the soldier shouted after them, 'horse theft's a hanging offense, boy!'

The boys rode hard for an hour and then Dean slowed the horse to a walk.

'You okay Sammy?'

Sam shrugged.

'How do you know so much about guns?' he asked.

'Dad taught me to shoot when I was eight. And Mr Elkins, Rufus and the other firemen; all they ever did was talk about guns and ammo,' he paused. 'And whiskey and women.'

Sam harrumphed. 'Did you learn as much about whiskey and women as you did about guns and ammo?'

'I like to think so, Sammy,' Dean said smugly.

There was a brief silence and then Sam said:

'Don't you ever do that again, okay?'

Dean didn't respond.

'And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about,' Sam added. 'And don't pretend you didn't do it on the Amanda too. I ain't stupid ya know. You promise me that you're never gonna do that again.'

Dean chewed on his bottom lip.

'I'll do whatever it takes to keep us safe. You gotta understand that. It's my job to look out for you.'

Sam huffed.

'But you're not keeping _you_ safe. You gotta promise me you'll keep you safe too.'

Dean shook his head.

'I'll try,' he conceded.

Sam figured that was as good as he was going to get and he grimaced. If Dean wouldn't promise to keep himself safe, then Sam was going to have to adopt a similar philosophy to his brother and look out for the both of them, no matter what it took.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Twist of Fate—Part 3**

_(For full summary and warnings see Part 1)_

_**September 1867**_

Dean and Sam rode until nightfall and then set up camp. They slept fitfully, frightened that every snapping twig they heard was the soldier, or the local sheriff and a posse, coming after them. They broke camp before dawn and rode hard all day, only stopping to eat, relieve themselves, and to give the horse a break and a drink. They abandoned both the gun and the horse in Plainfield, figuring that they wouldn't be able to take care of a horse in a city and that a couple of kids with a rifle might attract unwanted attention. Dean considered trying to sell them both, but he doubted anyone would buy either a horse or a gun from a twelve year old and besides, he didn't want to give anyone a reason to remember them if he could help it.

It took the boys over three hours to walk from Plainfield to Elizabeth and by the time they got there it was dark and the ferries to New York weren't running. Once again the brothers made use of their break and enter skills and broke into a dockside warehouse, where they slept the night. They were woken before dawn by a couple of angry wharfies, who hauled them bodily out of the warehouse, slapping them and boxing their ears as they went, all the while calling them worthless gutter-snipes and savage urchins. Dean took advantage of the close contact to pick the pocket of his attacker, a fact he didn't reveal to Sam until they were well away from the dock workers.

'You're okay, Sammy,' he comforted his little brother, wiping the boy's tears away with the bottom of his shirt. 'We've been through worse. Besides,' he grinned wickedly and dug his hand into the pocket of his trousers, 'look at what I found in that asshole's miser purse!' He held out a quarter with a grin. 'Gonna buy you breakfast and then get us tickets for the ferry across to New York!'

Dean and Sam breakfasted on corn bread and boiled egg, bought from a street vendor with a pushcart. They ate quickly, washing the food down with water from their flask, and then Dean lined up with all the respectable folk and bought two tickets for the ferry across to Manhattan. Breakfast and the tickets cost Dean almost half of his stolen quarter, and as he and Sam boarded the ferry, Dean worried at his bottom lip, wondering how they were going to survive in such a big city.

The ferry was basically a small steamboat. It had two stories—the top one with a canvas covering—it had one chimney stack, and wooden rails all around, lined with life buoys. Dean and Sam stood quietly by the rails at the front of the top deck and watched as New York came ever closer.

'It's so big!' Sam said, his voice completely awed, 'those buildings…they're so tall!'

The Liberty Street Ferry Terminal was housed in the same complex as the steam train terminal and was such a crowded, bustling metropolis that Dean and Sam were momentarily stunned. Sam's hand crept into Dean's and he looked up at his brother, his features etched with shock.

'What do we do now? There are so many people! How are we ever going to find Dad?'

Dean had no idea but he didn't want his little brother to think that he didn't have a plan, so he just grinned cockily.

'First things first,' he said airily. 'We need to find ourselves somewhere to stay.'

The mistress of the first boarding house that the boys enquired at sneered at them and slammed the door in their faces. So did the second: And the third. The fourth told them that her rooms cost five dollars a month, minimum booking one month, cash up front, and perhaps they'd be best to try a little further out, the fourth ward perhaps, or maybe the sixth. The boys kept wandering and when the finely built stone buildings and paved streets gave way to ramshackle wooden buildings and dirt streets, they figured it was safe to start enquiring again. In this area you could book rooms by the night, but the cost was still beyond their means. It wasn't until the boys had worked their way into the heart of the slum district that they found accommodation they could afford. The place was a hovel, and board wasn't included, but Dean paid for one night (which was all he could afford) and they were shown into a basement room, maybe nine foot long by six foot wide. There were no windows; nor was there a fireplace. The dirt floor was lined with loose straw and the only furniture item; if you could call it that; was a chamber pot. There were three boys, all slightly older than Dean, sitting on bed rolls on the floor. Their eyes narrowed calculatingly as the Winchesters were shown into the room and Dean knew immediately that they couldn't leave their belongings unsupervised if they wanted to keep them. Turning to the woman who'd shown them to the room, Dean told her that they'd be back a bit later and she nodded and gave him a receipt so that he could prove that they had paid. The boys quickly escaped the damp, claustrophobic room and headed out to explore their surrounds.

The most notable thing about the neighborhood was the smell; a disgusting combination of rotting wood, stagnant water, bodily waste and decaying garbage. The boys had never experienced anything quite like it, and it made them both feel slightly nauseous. The area itself was a twisted warren of garbage-littered narrow alleyways, jam-packed with squalid, barely-standing tenements, many of which leaned against each other, as though they would fall down entirely without support. Crazy wooden staircases ran up the outside of every building, and rotted beams hung precariously from most. The few windows that remained were patched and broken, and strung from them, from one side of the alleys to the other, were washing lines, pegged with ragged clothes. On the bottom floors and in the basements of many of the tenement buildings there were rum saloons and gambling dens, the patrons of which frequently spilled drunkenly out onto the streets, sometimes to fight, sometimes to urinate in the street, and sometimes to lurch unsteadily to a nearby corner where provocatively dressed women blew them kisses and offered them a good time for just a few cents. Dean had heard of ladies of the night, but he'd never seen them before, and he'd never imagined that they walked the streets during the daylight hours. All sorts of vice and sin seemed to happen in New York City, at all times of the day or night, and Dean watched in abject horror as one of the women — little more than a girl really; she couldn't have been older than sixteen; took a drunken man deeper into a dark alley. She sank to her knees, opened his trousers, took out his cock and sucked it into her mouth. Dean couldn't quite contain the small noise of distress that escaped unbidden from between his clenched teeth, and he grabbed Sammy's hand and hurried him away. The further they walked the less dilapidated their surroundings became, although the crowd of people never got any thinner and there was always some manner of vice going on somewhere, no matter where you looked. There were theaters now too, as well as stores, proper saloons, brothels, messenger boys running everywhere, and shoe shiners and other street vendors, calling out their wares.

'I'm gonna have to get a job,' Dean said suddenly, 'just until we find Dad.'

Sam nodded. 'Maybe the ferries need people? You've got experience as a fireman.'

The ferries weren't hiring though. Nor were any of the dozen or so stores that Dean enquired at. The newspapers weren't looking for any additional paperboys either, and when Dean asked after a job at one of the messenger services he was given an impromptu quiz on the fastest routes to various city landmarks, which, having been in New York half a day, he failed utterly. The shoe shiners and pushcart vendors, he quickly discovered, were self-employed and before you could set up, you had to have all the necessary equipment, which he couldn't afford to buy. As day turned to dusk and the street vendors started to pack up for the day, Dean and Sam were able to swipe some bread and fruit from various pushcarts without detection. They ate quickly, stowing some of the food in their duffels for breakfast the next day, and then hurried back to their room, which now housed an Irishman and a black couple in addition to the three boys. Sam instinctively moved behind his big brother and Dean nodded at everyone before unfurling their bedrolls and placing them side by side in the farthest corner of the room.

A loud thumping at their door jolted Dean awake the next morning and he uncurled himself from his little brother and slipped out of bed just as the thumping sounding again, louder and more impatient this time.

'Alright, alright,' he muttered, 'I'm coming.'

He cracked the door open and peered up at a skinny, dark haired man with eyes like a rat's and a hacking cough. He held a book in one hand and had a pencil tucked behind his ear.

'Rise and shine,' the man shouted, yanking the door wide open, 'C'mon people up and out!'

'I paid for a week!' growled the Irishman from his bedroll.

'O'Reilly?'

'Yeah.'

'Yeah you're alright. Stay where you are.'

'I—' the black man began, but the ratty man cut him off with a sneer.

'Yeah, yeah. Got it down here. The negroes paid for a week.'

'You boys,' he pointed at the trio who'd already been in the room when Dean and Sam had arrived, 'you stayin' another night?'

The oldest of the three shook his head.

'Then get out.'

The boys started to gather their stuff together and the ratty man turned to Dean, 'What about you? You stayin' another night?'

Dean nodded and the man stuck his hand out.

'That'll be another ten cents, then.'

Dean scratched his chin.

'Can I give it to you later?'

The man affected an outraged pose.

'No you may not! Pay up, or get out.'

Dean nodded. 'Can you give us a few minutes?'

The man folded his arms and stood guard outside the door while Dean woke Sammy. They too gathered their things together and edged past the man at the door and out onto the street.

The brothers sat down on the front steps of the house and finished off the bread and fruit that they'd stolen the night before, and then made their plans for the day.

'If we're gonna start our own shoeshine business,' Dean said, 'we're gonna need some start-up money.'

The theater district had a good mix of rich and poor so Dean and Sam didn't stand out and yet there were plenty of wealthy pockets to pick. They had just rolled a bearded gentleman wearing a monocle and a stovepipe hat—Sam having 'tripped' abruptly in front of him, while Dean crashed into him from behind—and were about to make their way separately around the corner, when some sixth sense caused Dean to glance up. A boy, no older than Sammy, was standing on the porch of a rickety old building, and staring right at him. As soon as he saw Dean looking at him, he shook his head slightly and inclined his head towards the building where he was standing. Dean made a split second judgment and decided to trust the boy, heading across the road and joining the boy on the porch.

'Hide,' the boy said and dragged Dean into the building.

'Wait,' Dean said urgently, 'my brother—'

'—will be fine,' the boy said, 'as long as you stay hidden and just watch.'

Simultaneously, two coppers walked around the corner and the gentleman realized that his wallet and fob watch had been stolen.

'Stop! Thief!' he shouted, pointing at Sam.

The constables promptly grabbed hold of Sam who squirmed and cried out his innocence.

'Sa—' Dean's companion clapped a hand over his mouth.

'Shh,' he said, 'you need to stay still and quiet. You understand?'

Dean nodded. He watched fearfully as the constables frisked his little brother and, finding no evidence of any crime on his person, turned to the gentleman and asked him if he was sure that Sam had robbed him.

'I didn't, sir, honest I didn't,' Sam's eyes were so big, so pleading and so innocent looking that not even the hardest, most miserly man could have believed him guilty.

'I'm not certain, no,' the gentleman conceded. 'It must've been the other boy, the one who knocked into me.'

One of the constables sniffed.

'He'll be long gone by now. You want to get yourself one of them miser purses, sir, they're a damn sight harder for those filthy little street urchins to pinch, pardon my language, sir.'

He turned to Sam.

'What's your name, boy?'

'Sam…Turner.'

"And what are you up to, young Sam?'

'My momma sent me,' he gestured at a nearby saloon, 'to get my Pa.'

The constable sighed and shook his head sadly.

'Off you go then, lad.'

Sam dutifully walked into the saloon and then, when the constables and the gentleman had gone, he ran outside to look for Dean. They met in the middle of the street and Dean dragged his little brother back to the building where he'd been hiding. Sam was trembling slightly and Dean pulled him into a tight hug.

'I thought you left me,' the younger boy sniffed.

'I'll never leave you, Sammy.'

Their savior grinned enthusiastically at them and slapped them both on the back.

'Nice moves,' he said, 'I've been watching you boys for a while.'

The boys pulled apart and Dean stared at him, unsure what to say.

'I'm Sam,' the younger boy decided that introductions were in order, 'and this is my brother Dean.'

'Pleased to make your acquaintance,' the other boy stuck out his hand, and shook first Sam's hand then Dean's. 'I'm Artful Andy,' he said, 'Folks call me that cuz I'm real artful at duckin' and weavin', pickin' pockets and pretty much any kinda hustle you care to name. Basically, I can do whatever I want and no-one can stop me!'

'Oh,' Dean said politely, 'Okay.'

'So where you boys from?' Artful Andy asked.

'Out west,' Dean said vaguely.

Artful Andy nodded sagely. 'I can tell by your accents that you didn't come over on no boat. Native born, right?' he said.

'That's right,' Dean agreed.

Artful Andy beamed.

'So you ain't no Dead Rabbits then, huh?'

Dean and Sam looked at each other.

'Uh, yeah,' Dean said finally, 'I got no clue what that means.'

Artful Andy rolled his eyes.

'My eye,' he scoffed, 'you are green!' he threw his arms around Dean and Sam's shoulders. 'Around here, the streets are run by the gangs. The two biggest gangs are the Unholy Trinity and the Dead Rabbits. All the other smaller gangs kick up to one of those main two gangs. Everyone in the Unholy Trinity is native born—the Trinity moved in and took over where the Bowery Boys left off. The Dead Rabbits are all Irish. I work for the Unholy Trinity cuz us natives gotta stick together, right?'

'Uh huh,' Dean responded.

'Couldn't help noticing that you boys've got some mad skills. Where d'you learn the trade?'

'Around,' Dean said evasively.

'Right,' Artful Andy nodded, 'Well, around here, if you work the streets you gotta be affiliated and you gotta pay dues. The Trinity'll see you right.'

'Look, no offense,' Dean said, 'but we're just getting together enough to set up a shoeshine business. Then we'll go legit.'

Artful Andy scratched his head.

'Yeah you could,' he said, 'but like I said, you work the streets you gotta pay dues. You think the shoeshine boys aren't all kicking up to someone? Stick to crime, Dean. It's ten times the pay for less than half the effort. And you'll never get on and be a face in this town if you start out as a shoeshine boy.'

Dean made eye contact with his brother. He'd seen how freaked Sam had been earlier when he'd narrowly escaped arrest. Somehow, he didn't think his brother would be happy living a life of crime.

'I dunno, Andy,' he prevaricated.

'Fair enough. It's a big decision. You boys got somewhere to stay?'

Dean shook his head.

'Well,' Andy beamed, 'it just so happens that I know a respectable ol' gentleman what would be happy to give you free room and board. What d'you say?'

Dean raised an eyebrow.

'Nothing's for free, dude. I learnt that a long time ago.'

Artful Andy laughed and clapped Dean on the shoulder.

'Truer words was never spoken. But don't worry; your virtue'll be safe with Azazel. He's a hard bastard, but he ain't a perv. You'll get one night just for listening to his sales pitch. If you want to stay longer, yeah, you'll have to contribute. But you can jump off that bridge when you come to it. What d'you say?'

Dean looked at his brother.

'Sammy?'

For Sam, who'd been quietly terrified that his brother might decide to start standing on street corners like the ladies of the night they'd seen, the offer of free room and board with a grownup who wasn't a pervert seemed too good to pass up on. And so what if they had to pick a few pockets for him? At least Dean would let Sam watch his back while they did that. It was far better than Dean secretly letting perverts use his mouth down some dark alley. Sam met his brother's eyes.

'Sure,' he said. 'Why not?'

-X-

Deep in the heart of the slum district, in an area where even the metropolitan police were scared to tread, there was a three story building indifferent to its neighbors in the way it leaned and rotted. Its shutters were hanging off, its windows were boarded, and its wide front steps were decaying, broken and misaligned. Andy leapt up them nimbly and Dean sensibly stepped exactly where Andy had stepped, motioning silently for Sam to do the same. The first floor of the building was dark, damp and dirty and Dean was relieved when Andy led them straight up a battered internal staircase.

'Careful,' he said. 'Some of these steps is nearly rotted through.'

The second floor of the building had a much more cheerful disposition. Though still dirty, there was a fire place, as well as numerous candles, which illuminated some parts of the room while causing long shadows to be cast over other parts. There were a couple of kitchen tables, a few easy chairs and large pieces of cloth, strung up on rope, which had the area sectioned off at various intervals. A couple of lads about Dean's age lounged in the easy chairs, one smoking a pipe. They nodded to Andy and gave the Winchester boys a cautious once over as they entered.

'Azazel,' Andy called, and a man moved out from the shadows around the fireplace. For one brief moment his eyes appeared to flash yellow and then he moved out of the gloom and Dean could see that it had just been a trick of the light. The man—Azazel—wore a full length coat and fingerless gloves and held a sausage pierced on a long-pronged fork in one hand. As he approached he smiled, or at least his lips stretched back over his gums and he showed a lot of rotting teeth but his eyes remained cold and assessing.

'Well, well,' he said. 'Who have you brought to see me, Andy?'

'This is Dean and Sam. They're brothers. I seen 'em workin' a beat down on lower Broadway; watched 'em roll a few toffs. Sam played the stall and Dean was the wire. Regular guns they are too, Azazel. Last toff they rolled, they made off with a well-lined leather and they banged a super too; a gold one.'

Sam moved close in behind his brother.

'What's he talkin' about?' he whispered.

Dean shrugged. 'Beats me.'

Azazel looked at the boys sharply and Andy rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, yeah. They're a coupla pie eaters; real shave tails, green as grass, but like I said, they've got skill. Reckon they just need somebody to take'em under his tuition, like, and finish their education for 'em.'

Sam's ears pricked up.

'Education? Like school? I'm good with my books, sir. I'd love to go to school.'

Azazel grinned.

'Oh, I like this one. That's right my dear. If you're agreeable to it, I'd be more than happy to put you through the Unholy Trinity School of Larceny.'

Sam beamed. And then his face fell.

'But we don't have any money. We can't afford to pay you.'

'Sam,' Dean whispered, 'Larceny's the same thing as stealing. He just wants to teach us how to be better pickpockets.'

Sam's bottom lip dropped and his eyes became big and sad.

Azazel grinned and pointed his two-pronged fork at the boy.

'You're good,' he said, 'I like you. Those puppy dog eyes'll make us a fortune. As a matter of fact, you're both handsome, innocent looking boys. And you're clever too, aren't you Sam?' Azazel stroked his chin and scrutinized them carefully, 'Yes,' he mused, 'you've got the potential to go far in this line of graft.'

Azazel pulled up a chair for himself.

'Come here, Sam,' he said.

Sam looked to Dean for approval and when his brother nodded reluctantly he approached the older man. Azazel lifted the boy up and sat him on his knee.

'Have a sausage,' he offered the fork to Sam, who hesitated for a moment and then took it. 'Good boy. Andy?'

'Yes boss?'

'Fetch my boy here a mug of water.'

Andy did as he was told while Dean shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, uneasy at the attention that Azazel was paying Sam but not really having anything in particular to complain about. When Andy handed him the mug of water, Azazel withdrew a silver flask from inside his coat and poured something into the water.

'What's that?' Dean demanded.

'Easy Pit-bull, it's just a little gin to flavor the water. Andy: Take Dean and get him some supper. Get him something to drink too.' Azazel ran a hand through Sam's hair, 'I'm just gonna have a chat with your baby brother, okay, Pit-bull? Get to know him. I've got a feeling he's going to be one of my special boys.'

Dean's eyes widened, his face paled visibly and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

'You get your hands off him,' he hissed. 'Don't you touch him; don't you fuckin' dare! He's not your 'special boy.' He's just a kid! So you leave him alone or so help me God, I will rip your lungs out!'

Azazel looked steadily at Dean for a heartbeat and then sighed and tipped a nervous looking Sam off his lap.

'Sam, go on now with Andy and get some supper for your brother. Jake? Max? ' he turned to the boys in the easy chairs. 'You go on with them.'

He waited until the boys had moved back into the shadows by the fireplace and then said:

'Dean? Come here, son.'

Dean glowered.

'I ain't your son. And I ain't your 'special boy'. But…but if you leave Sammy alone …I'll…if…you want…'

'Come here, Dean.' Azazel's voice was steel and it was compelling and Dean was by his side before he'd even realized that he'd decided to move.

'What do you want?' he tried to sound confident, but his voice just came out shaky because he'd trusted Andy when Andy had said this guy wasn't a perv and now here he was going on about special boys and—

Azazel grabbed Dean by the wrist and Dean gasped and jerked backwards but it was too little too late and Dean suddenly found himself sitting on Azazel's lap just as Sam had been doing.

'It's okay Dean,' Azazel said soothingly, 'I'm not interested in your mouth or your ass. And I'm not interested in Sammy that way either. So relax, okay?'

'Then why am I sitting on your lap?' his voice didn't just squeak; really it didn't.

Azazel sighed.

'Did you never sit on your father's lap, Dean?'

'Sure. When I was a kid. I'm twelve now!'

Azazel smiled indulgently.

'I want us to be family,' he said. 'I like all my boys to think of me as a father.'

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to tell Azazel that he and Sam already had a father, so they didn't need him, but something held his tongue. He didn't know Azazel well enough to give away their whole life story just yet.

'And your special boys?' he asked.

'Are the ones with the most talent; the future leaders. In your brother I see intelligence, a burning desire to better himself, and anger: A lot of deep-seated anger. He'll go far in this world.'

'And me?' Dean couldn't help asking.

Azazel laughed. 'You want to know what I think of you?'

Dean flushed and started to stammer a reply but Azazel waved him silent and then ruffled his hair. Dean scowled and tried to pull away.

'I see the obvious. You're very pretty and you're very protective of your brother. As to your particular strengths and talents, time will tell. Our business has a number of different arms. I'm sure we can find something to suit you: If you decide to stay.' Azazel looked at him thoughtfully. 'Alastair is going to want you apprenticed to him desperately.'

'Why? Who's Alastair?'

'He's one third of the Unholy Trinity. Among other things, he runs the brothels.'

Dean went red

"But…what's that got to do…I thought…girls…'

"Alastair likes to cater to a wide range of tastes.'

'I…I don't want…'

'Really? Despite your earlier offer?'

Humiliation bloomed in Dean's eyes.

'I thought…you…Sammy…to keep Sammy safe. I don't want…ever…'

'It's okay, Dean,' Azazel rubbed a hand over his back. 'If you decide to stay,' he added, 'we'll start you off with petty larceny. After that, it depends on you. You can move on to break and enter, armed robbery, and protection rackets, or you can move on to scams, cons and hustles.' He paused for a beat and then said: 'Working for Alastair is another—'

'No.' Dean cut him off.

Azazel smiled. 'Go and get something to eat. We'll find you boys a bed for the night, and then you can spend the evening talking to the others; getting a feel for our way of life. We'll talk some more in the morning. I can't promise you much, but I can promise you a safe roof over your heads, tonight at least.'

Dean nodded. He wasn't sure that he liked Azazel; wasn't sure that he trusted him, but he did believe that he was a man of his word.

-X-

With the addition of Dean and Sam, there were thirteen boys living with Azazel, ranging in age from seven to fourteen. They wandered in over the next few hours, in groups of two or three, pulling wallets, pocket handkerchiefs and fob watches from their inside jacket pockets and handing them off to Azazel as they ambled past him. Occasionally, Azazel would haul one of the boys back to ruffle his hair and praise him for a job well done; occasionally he would haul one of them back to cuff the back of his head and deliver a stern lecture about work ethic. When the older Winchester wondered aloud why there weren't any older lads among Azazel's boys, Andy told him that the boss didn't let any boy stay in his digs past the age of fourteen; he figured his boys should be self-sufficient by then.

Azazel's boys spent the evening eating, drinking and generally making merry. There was a lot of laughter and a lot of joking, mostly at the expense of the metropolitan police and the local magistrate. Several of the boys, and even Azazel himself, soon had Dean and Sam in fits of laughter with tales of jobs pulled and police bamboozled, and had them gasping in wonder at some of the gang's more daring escapades, especially those that involved warfare with rival gangs like the Dead Rabbits. Dean didn't let Sammy have too much to drink, but he himself had a little more whiskey than was perhaps wise. The candles had burned low and Dean was a little unsteady on his feet when Andy finally led the brothers to a curtained off area which held several straw mattresses.

'You can sleep here,' Andy pointed at the mattress nearest to the curtain, 'and don't worry none about your bundles. We're all prigs here, so it don't make no sense to cabbage each other's stuff.'

He sighed when Dean and Sam just looked at him blankly.

'If you decide to stay,' he said, 'you're gonna have to get onboard with the Cant real quick like. I said: _we're all thieves here, so it don't make no sense to steal from each other_. Right?'

Neither Winchester bothered to reply; they simply dropped their duffels, unpacked their bedrolls and got into bed.

-X-

Dean awoke with a dry mouth, a sore head, a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach and a bit of straw from the mattress digging into his back.

Oh God.

Now he understood why Rufus had kept telling him not to go making a habit of the hooch. His eyes still closed, Dean reached up with his hands and massaged his temples. Of course, Rufus was long gone, but Dean couldn't help thinking that the butt warming the man had promised him if he got himself drunk before the age of twenty-one seemed like a moot point anyway; the pounding in his head was punishment enough. Thank God he'd been smart enough not to let Sammy drink too much.

_Sammy_…

Dean opened his eyes carefully and turned his head.

_Sammy?_

Sonovabitch! The alcohol had made him sleep so soundly he hadn't even noticed Sammy getting out of bed. Goddamn it! Anything could've happened to him and it would be all Dean's fault. He swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his boots then swayed briefly on his feet before yanking back the curtain and heading cautiously for the hearth.

'Sammy?'

'Dean! You're awake!' his little brother beamed at him, 'Me, Azazel and Billy've been playing a game!'

Dean's eyes darted to Azazel.

'Yeah?' he ventured, 'what sort of game?'

'Can we show him? Can we Azazel?'

'Of course, my dear. Come and sit down, Dean. Here you go, lad. Have a cup of coffee.'

Dean sank gratefully into the offered easy chair and took the bitter, black brew that Azazel held out.

Azazel gave him a sympathetic smile and then with a flourish, he began to walk across the floor, swinging his cane and doffing his hat, like a gentleman out for his morning promenade. Sam, meanwhile, slipped silently up behind him and liberated both his pocket book and his silk handkerchief with a delicate touch.

'Is it gone?' Azazel asked in a tone of exaggerated surprise.

'Yes!' Sam giggled, 'both the leather and the fogle.'

'Good boy, Sam!' Azazel chuckled with delight, 'Such a clever boy. Such an apt pupil! You, my dear, are destined for great things! But ho! What's this?'

'What's what?'

'This? Here; behind your ear.' Azazel reached behind Sam's head, 'Why…it's a nickel!' He handed the coin to the little boy who practically skipped across to his big brother.

'Look Dean! Azazel's magic! He made a nickel come outta my ear! Here. You take it.'

Dean's smile was a little strained, and not just because he was feeling unwell.

'That's great, Sammy. So you've been practicing this? And learning the gang's special language?'

'Yep,' Sam beamed. 'A leather's a wallet, a fogle's a handkerchief, and a fob watch gets called either a super or a ticker!'

Dean nodded.

'So you're happy? You're okay about doing this?'

Sam nodded.

'Billy and Andy…Andy's gone out to work now, but he was here before…anyway, they explained it. They said most Toffs got rich from sploitin' the poor and makin' 'em work in their factories and whatnot for next to no pay, and the Toffs never got conscripted cuz they could afford to pay off the army, so it was only ever the likes of us as got sent off to die. And they said if we don't take the Toffs's leathers and their fogles and their tickers then some other cove will, and there won't be no difference to the Toff what got cabbaged, cuz his stuff will still be gone, no matter who takes it. The only difference will be some other cove getting the benefit and not us. And we've got as much right to it as that other bloke, so we'd be stupid not to go out there and take what we can for ourselves.'

'Oh,' said Dean. 'That sounds…fair enough, actually; in a twisted sort of way.'

Sam grinned again.

'Well it's a lot better than some other stuff we could be doing, right Dean?'

Dean went slightly red about the ears and covered up by taking a big gulp of coffee, but the exchange didn't go unnoticed by Azazel who observed that the younger Winchester was every bit as protective of Dean as Dean was of him. Those boys had each other's backs, he mused. They were each other's greatest strength. But on the flip side they were also each other's greatest weakness. Azazel tucked that bit of knowledge away in his brain just in case he should ever need to exploit that fact.

'Guess what else, Dean?'

'What?'

'They've got a proper tub! Azazel filled it up with hot water and let me go in it! I took all my clothes off and everything. See how clean I am?'

Dean's eyes darted from his brother's to Azazel's and back again and Azazel was amused by the panic he saw in the older boy's eyes.

'You…he…he didn't, um, wash you did he?'

Sam rolled his eyes and regarded his older brother scornfully.

'I'm not a baby. I _can_ wash myself you know.'

Dean smiled.

'Good. That's…good.'

'The water should still be warm,' Azazel said softly, 'if you'd like to take a bath yourself.'

Dean's first instinct was to dismiss the suggestion out of hand; the idea of being completely naked; of being vulnerable like that, horrified him. But he couldn't deny that the chance to soak in a warm tub, to wash away all the dirt and grime from his time on the road, was very appealing. And besides, he could always keep his knife on the edge of the tub.

'Okay, sure,' he said. 'That sounds good. Thank you.'

He kept it brief though, washing himself quickly and efficiently, his knife at the ready and his eyes fixed on the curtain, ready to attack if it so much as twitched.

When he appeared back at the hearth, washed and brushed and dressed in slightly cleaner clothes, he saw that another young boy had joined the group so there were now three youngsters playing pickpocketing games with Azazel. Dean's eyes were drawn immediately, though, to an older boy who lounged nonchalantly in one of the easy chairs, smoking a pipe. He hadn't been around last night that was for sure, a fact that was confirmed when the young man in question took the pipe from his mouth and addressed Azazel.

'Hey boss, who's the fish?'

'This is Sam's brother, Dean. Dean this is Ansem.'

Ansem gave Dean a flat-eyed stare and then nodded.

'Guess the tub's free then.'

'Eh. Yeah. Water's not too warm any more though. You might wanna refill it.'

Ansem got to his feet, stretched and then cracked his back.

'You better give us a hand then. Man, I really need to get the smell and the feel of the Tombs off me.'

Dean frowned.

Tombs? These guys weren't into grave robbing too were they?

Ansem saw his puzzled look.

'You're not from around here are you?'

Dean shook his head.

'What are the tombs?'

Ansem grinned. 'A place you don't never wanna go, but likely will go soon enough if you're gonna be part of the gang. It's the New York prison.'

'Oh.'

'I was lagged for cabbaging a coupla leathers. Got ninety days. C'mon.'

As Dean followed Ansem out to haul some fresh water for the tub he turned quickly to look at Sam. His brother was still training with Azazel and the two younger boys and he looked comfortable and at ease; like he was having fun.

'Move your ass!' Ansem hollered and Dean hurried after him.

He still wasn't sure whether they should stay or not—Ansem's revelation that he'd just been released from prison had been quite a reality check—but if staying put was going to give Sammy some semblance of normalcy then he'd take it, no matter the risk.

-X-

Throughout the rest of the day Dean, Sam, Ansem and the other younger boys helped Azazel with a few household chores— and _helped_ in this instance meant that they did the chores while Azazel sat in an easy chair, smoking his pipe, drinking from his flask and barking orders at them. Eventually he called the Winchester boys over and pulled them both onto his lap. Sam settled there quite comfortably but Dean squirmed with embarrassment.

'Have you decided yet, boys? Do you want to stay with me and my boys?'

The gang had just started to cook dinner and the smell of pork stew was making Dean's mouth water. He could say no, tell Azazel that they didn't want to stay; they'd stolen enough cash yesterday to pay for a few nights' room and board after all. But what then? They'd be back out on the street picking pockets again, only this time they'd be rivals of the established gangs and no matter where they tried to ply their trade, there would always be somebody ready to tax them—and like as not kick their asses for poaching as well. At least if they were Azazel's boys they would have some measure of protection—and the occasional hot, home cooked meal as well. Dean looked up at his little brother and asked the question with his eyes: _What do you think? Do you want to do this?_ Sam's nod was almost imperceptible and Dean felt the knot in his stomach unclench just a little. They would do this. For now. Because sooner or later they would find Dad and when they did, they'd be a happy, normal, law-abiding family again.

Dean turned to Azazel and nodded.

'Yeah. We've decided. We want to stay with you guys.'

'Excellent!' Azazel beamed. 'Well, as you saw yesterday, my boys are required to hand over all their takings to me. I fence any tickers, jewelry or handkerchiefs, take a percentage of the whole kitty for our living expenses and so on, and then each boy gets a wage at the end of each week. How much you get depends on how much you bring in, so aspire to be like Andy, boys. He earns a decent wage, my lads, a decent wage.'

Azazel tipped Dean off his lap, much to the older Winchester's relief.

'Off you go and get your take from yesterday to contribute to the kitty.'

Dean started off across the floor, a little irritated that they were going to lose their independence so quickly and become reliant on Azazel.

'And Dean?'

Dean turned back to the older man, whose eyes glinted golden in the candlelight.

'Don't even think about holding anything back. You may think you're too old to sit on my knee lad, but you're definitely not too old to be put over it. You even think about withholding any of your take from the kitty and you won't be able to sit for a week.'

Dean bit back the retort that was on the tip of his tongue, nodded once and disappeared from the room

When he returned with everything that he and Sam had stolen the previous day, Azazel was whispering in his little brother's ear and Sam was smiling and nodding. Dean felt anxiety spike through his veins. Sammy was _his_ family, not Azazel's. The man wasn't Sam's father and never would be, no matter how much he tried to pretend. Azazel didn't share a blood bond with Sam, not like Dean did and Dean's stomach churned painfully at the thought that he might lose his brother to their new boss.

-X-

Sam's tummy was full, he was warm and comfortable, and he was well-rested and relaxed. He'd had a good day playing games with Azazel and the other younger lads and he was pleased that Dean seemed to have cautiously accepted their companions. Well…that wasn't entirely true, he was still reserved and suspicious around Azazel but he seemed happy enough in the company of the other boys. Sam shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. The woolen blanket he was sitting on didn't provide much padding and the floor was hard. Dean's arm wrapped around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

'You okay, Sammy?'

'Yeah. You?'

Dean grinned.

'We're safe, we're together, we've got a roof over our heads, and we've got food in our bellies. What more could a guy ask for?'

The room smelled of pork stew, wood-smoke and tobacco, which, for the most part, masked the neighborhood's more unpleasant odors. It was only when someone came through the door that you got a strong, nasty whiff of sewerage, rot and garbage. So when the door was pushed open and a woman and a girl walked into the room, it attracted everyone's attention. The woman wore a burgundy colored low cut dress, which sat off her shoulders and pushed her ample bust out for all to see. Dean went pink around the ears and ducked his head quickly before sneaking another quick appreciative peek at the woman's bosom. The only women he'd seen dressed so scantily were the street walkers and the women who hung out of the brothel windows and called out to potential customers. But this woman couldn't be a lady of the night; she looked too nice.

'Look boys, it's Ellen. And her lovely daughter Jo. What a delight to see you both,' Azazel said, in a tone which suggested it was anything but. 'What brings you to our humble abode, my dear Ellen?'

'Aw, Azazel,' Ellen put a delicate hand to his cheek, 'as if you don't know.'

She turned her attention to the group of boys by the fire, most of who were eagerly calling out to Jo to join them.

'Go on, honey,' she nodded to her daughter, 'go and join in.'

The younger girl grinned and headed straight for the tangle of boys sprawled on blankets in front of the fire. Jo's blue dress wasn't quite as provocative as her mother's, but it certainly wasn't the dress of a puritan and Dean was quietly worried that some of the more uncouth lads might grab at her disrespectfully. Much to his surprise she was treated with the utmost respect and hospitality by all of the boys. Jo caught his look of amazement and grinned at him.

'What's up, fish? Surprised I ain't gettin' pawed?'

'Uh. Yeah, actually.'

'Aw. Ain't you sweet,' she patted his face, 'the boys here know that I've got a mean right hook. And,' her smile became sexy and flirtatious and she drew her hands slowly up her leg before whipping a knife out of her garter and holding it to Dean's throat, 'I know how to use this.'

'And I,' said Sam, 'know how to use this.'

Jo felt the cold steal tip of a knife poke into the side of her neck.

'So I suggest you get away from my brother.'

Jo slid her eyes sideways and glanced at the determined young boy beside her.

'Sheesh, kid, I was just playing. Over react much?'

Jo removed her knife slowly from Dean's neck and replaced it in her garter.

Sam reciprocated, putting his own knife back in his boot.

'No hard feelin's, right fish?' Jo pouted prettily.

'Dean. My name's, um, Dean. And this is my brother Sam.'

Jo looked at Sam coolly and then nodded to him before turning her attention back to Dean.

'Sooo,' she leaned forwards, her lips mere inches from his, 'Guess I owe you a kiss, huh?'

'Joanna Beth!' Ellen growled, 'quit your teasin', girl.'

Dean took advantage of her distraction to lean forward and kiss her on the lips before pulling back and giving her a mischievous grin.

'Gonna poke me with that over-grown sewing needle again?' he challenged.

To his complete surprise she blushed and then reached up under her skirts again and pulled out a pack of cards.

'How 'bout a game of poker, Dean-o?'

'Don't do it, Dean,' Andy said urgently, 'she's a right little—'

Ansem clapped a hand over his mouth.

'Shut it, little brother. Let _Dean-o_ fend for himself.'

Dean eyed Jo speculatively for a moment and then shrugged.

'What are we playing for?'

'Coin. What else?'

'I don't have any.'

Jo shrugged.

'Yeah, but you will. And you're not gonna stiff me; I know where you sleep.'

'Okay, sister. Let's play.'

A collective groan went up among the boys and Sam saw that Dean was getting a lot of sympathetic looks—and some not so sympathetic as well. Clearly everybody expected Dean to lose.

Sam watched them play for a while, but soon got bored and turned his attention to Azazel and Ellen who were talking animatedly on the other side of the room.

The door suddenly blew open again and a tall, imposing black man strode into the room.

'Gordon,' Azazel said tightly, 'another unexpected pleasure.'

Gordon snorted.

'Isn't a man on the street doesn't know you've fenced that last job already. The bulk of that profit is mine, Azazel, and your master,' he glared at Ellen, 'better not think he's getting more than a basic cut!'

Ellen stood up, hands on hips, and stared Gordon down. 'Alastair will get exactly what he's entitled to. He'll get the funding money he staked you reimbursed and twenty percent. You couldn't've pulled that job without his intel, so don't you try to stiff him now.'

Gordon reared up to his full height and glowered down at Ellen.

'_Alastair will get_,' he mimicked, 'you dare to tell me what Alastair will get? Alastair, who took none of the risk; Alastair who sent his whore to negotiate for him; Alastair wh—'

'—who should be able to trust his business partners not to stab him in the back,' a male voice said softly.

The air in the room seemed to dip by three or four degrees and Sam shuddered. He wondered how the man had managed to get into the room so quietly that no-one had even noticed him arrive. For a long moment everything was utterly still and quiet, as if held in tableau by a malevolent force, and then sound and motion rushed back like a returning tide, and the boys all huddled closer together, Azazel sank more deeply into his chair and Gordon took an involuntary step backwards.

'Alastair,' he stuttered, 'I didn't expect to see you here.'

'Obviously.' Alastair's voice grated on Sam's nerves, like a slate pencil on a writing slate.

Alastair glided further into the room.

'I'm here for my share, Azazel. And bear in mind, I already know exactly how much you got when you fenced the merchandise.'

'Of course, Alastair,' Azazel smarmed, 'I'll just go and get it. I've got the readies stashed in a safe place.'

He scurried away and was back a moment later with an ornately carved wooden box. Sam watched, stunned, as he hastily counted out twenty dollar coins into Alastair's waiting purse. Alastair raised an eyebrow.

'That's a little light, don't you think Azazel?'

Azazel scowled. 'And what am I to feed the boys with, Alastair, you tell me that?'

Alastair's eyebrow lifted even further and Azazel reluctantly dropped another five coins into his purse.

'Excellent. Ten for Gordon.'

'Ten? Ten?' Gordon spat, 'My boys and me took all the risk! We—'

'Have your uses, yes.' Alastair replied mildly, 'But brains are worth more than brawn and as you have little of the former it is just as well you have so much of the latter. Now I suggest you take your cut and shut your mouth before I decide you're more trouble than you're worth.'

Gordon glared furiously at Alastair but he shut his mouth and held his hands out for his share of the cut.

'Only five dollars for us,' Azazel muttered, 'how'm I gonna feed fifteen mouths with so little coin? Four days it took me to fence all that jewelry and silverware, four days. Well there's nothing for it, some of the older ones will have to go, I—'

'_Fifteen_ mouths, Azazel?' Alastair turned his head sharply to where the boys all cowered on blankets in front of the fire. He noted Sam, then Dean, and his eyes lit up with delight. 'You have new boys! And fine specimens they are too.'

In the blink of an eye he was kneeling in front of Dean and reaching out a hand to lift his face.

'Oh!' he breathed when Dean's frightened eyes met his, 'What beautiful green eyes you have. What's your name, boy?'

'D-Dean.'

'Dean. Unusual. Has anyone ever told you how exquisite your lips are?' Alastair reached out with his other hand and drew his thumb delicately across Dean's bottom lip, before gently forcing him to part his lips. The boy lowered his eyes and trembled at the touch and Alastair became achingly hard. Suddenly his hand was slapped away from his prize as a small boy threw himself right at Alastair, pummeling him with his little fists and shouting at him, 'Don't you touch my brother! You leave him alone or I'll kill you!'

Alastair hauled the screaming bundle of furious boy across his lap and began to spank him hard. Dean, in turn, launched himself at Alastair and tried to prise his brother from the man's grasp, begging him to please leave Sammy alone.

'Leave the boy be, Alastair,' Ellen was suddenly at her master's side and he allowed her to pull the smaller boy away from him and into her tight embrace. 'He's just looking out for his brother. Leave him be.'

Alastair wasn't too upset by this turn of events as it meant that he was left with the older boy in his arms. He shifted slightly and pulled Dean flush against his body so that the cheeks of the boy's bottom were pressed against Alastair's straining erection. Dean went rigid; and then just as abruptly he dropped his head and relaxed completely. Total submission! Alastair bit back a groan. He needed this boy in his dungeons like he needed air to breathe.

'Would you look at that,' Andy's voice broke through the tension. He'd picked up the hand of playing cards that Dean had discarded when he'd attacked Alastair and was staring at them in wonder. 'He had a royal flush! The boy was about to beat Jo! It looks like we got ourselves a natural born hustler here Azazel.'

'And a very adept pick pocket the boy is too.' Azazel took hold of Dean's arm and tugged him off Alastair's lap. 'We've already had some discussions regarding his future career path in our organization, Alastair, and he's keen on working the scams, cons and hustles. You have to admit, he's got the face for it.'

'He'd do just as well in my br—'

'No,' said Dean, 'Never. I won't do it.'

Alastair sighed. He wouldn't force the boy against his will. Not yet anyway. But one way or another, by hook or by crook, he was going to have that boy on his rack down in the dungeons of the Hellfire Club.

Alastair turned his attention to the younger boy.

'What about you, Spitfire? Would you like to work for me?'

The boy's face was streaked with tears but he still managed to muster an impressive glare.

'I'll kill you before I'll work for you!' he vowed.

Alastair chuckled. 'Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. You haven't got the juice to gank me.'

Gordon came up behind Ellen and put his hands on Sam's shoulders.

'I think this one's gonna be mine. My crew could do with a little'un for getting in small windows. And this one's got brass balls and a butt load of anger that I can put to good use.'

There was a brief silence and then Alastair allowed a small sinister smile to creep onto his face.

'Well boys,' he said, spreading his arms wide, 'welcome to the path to hell; the road to eternal damnation. Welcome to the Unholy Trinity. Your souls are now ours. Dishonor the name of the Trinity and you'll live in eternal torment.

Work hard, honor your masters, and you'll gain more wealth and respect than you ever thought possible.'

Dean swallowed and glanced at Sam. He had a sudden sinking feeling that joining the Unholy Trinity had been a terrible mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A Twist of Fate…Part 4**_

_(See Part 1 for warnings…please note that the story gets darker from here on in…)_

_[Thank you to everyone who has added this to their favorites and alerts and to those who have left reviews…especially souless666 who has reviewed each chapter! Thank you so much! :) ] _

_**May 1873**_

Sam was going to be tall. Of that, he was certain. He was only fourteen and already he was five foot eleven inches. Dean was tall—at eighteen he was a solid six foot one, but judging by the size of Sam's own hands and feet, he strongly suspected that he was going to be even bigger than his older brother, and in their world an imposing height was definitely a good thing.

As Sam headed for home, striding confidently through the twisted maze of alleys and laneways that was his neighborhood, he noted with pride how people already shrank away from him. His shadow, thrown up on the alley walls behind him by the morning's dawning rays looked big, dark and menacing and Sam was positive that one day he would be as imposing a figure as his shadow.

In many ways, Sam already seemed bigger than he was. He was Gordon's right hand man and it was widely acknowledged (although never to Gordon's face) that Sam was the brains of the crew. He had the protection rackets working like clockwork and since Sam had started researching and procuring the burglary and armed robbery jobs, there had been far fewer murders committed in the commission of their crimes, and fewer arrests too. The biggest benefit, though, was that Alastair was no longer providing the intel for the jobs, which meant that his cut of the burglary and armed robbery profits was much smaller. Gordon's cut—and this was the significant part—was accordingly much, much larger; and he liked that—and therefore Sam—a lot.

Alastair _didn't_ like Sam very much and not just because he'd done him out of easy money. Alastair could sense that Dean'd had some experience in performing sexual services for men back before the Winchesters had joined the Unholy Trinity, and he knew that in large part, Dean's continued, infuriating refusal to work in his brothels was because he'd promised Sam he wouldn't do that sort of thing anymore. Alastair not only wanted Dean in his employ, but also in his bed and so far, he'd been completely unable to persuade him into it. Sam had it on good authority that Alastair's patience was starting to wear thin, especially now that Dean was eighteen. It was a worry, but Dean had been deftly side-stepping the man's advances for six years now and Sam knew that Alastair wouldn't want to risk completely antagonizing Dean because he did earn a lot of money for the Unholy Trinity.

Dean was not only one of the best conmen the Trinity had, he also had a brilliant scam going making counterfeit national bank notes and was, under the title of 'person or persons unknown,' at the top of the Secret Service's Most Wanted list. The thought made Sam shudder. If Dean were caught, he'd be hanged for sure. Then again, he himself ran the same risk every time he went out on a Job. They lived in a dangerous world and survival was by no means guaranteed. Just last year Ansem had been hanged. Scott and Billy were both dead too; Billy was ganked by the Dead Rabbits and Scott had gotten on Gordon's bad side and been knifed in the back. And Artful Andy? He'd seen the writing on the wall when his older brother had been executed and had bought himself passage out to Victoria, Australia. Apparently there was a gold rush going on and he wanted a fresh start for himself; a new life. Sam was pleased for him, but he missed him a great deal and hoped that he was doing alright.

Sam started up the stairs towards the room that he and his brother shared in one of the better tenement buildings in the neighborhood. The stairs were barely rotted; only a couple of steps were dodgy; and the room itself was a decent size. Sam paused briefly at the door, just long enough to note that there was no sock hung on the door knob. He breathed a sigh of relief. The Job he'd just finished up had been tougher than expected and he wanted nothing more than to wash up, have a drink and fall into bed. If he'd had to sit out in the corridor for however long while his brother finished fucking his latest playmate, he would've been really pissed.

Dean went through women the way some men went through hot dinners; something new and different every day. Sam rubbed absently at his jaw. He still thought that Dean was over compensating for the things he'd been forced to do in his younger days; and the fact that a lot of men still looked at him like he was a tasty rabbit and they were hungry wolves; but the first (and last) time he'd mentioned this to Dean his brother had knocked him on his ass with a well-aimed punch to his jaw.

Sam entered the room and relaxed immediately; he was home. Of course, home would always be wherever Dean was, but that didn't mean he wasn't proud of this place. With the exception of Jo, none of their friends had a room as big and well-appointed as this. Jo lived in at Harvelle's Whorehouse; she and her Momma had a comfortable private room off the main entertainment suite; so Sam wasn't sure that was a fair comparison. In any event, his and Dean's room was big enough for a proper kitchen table with four chairs, a couple of easy chairs, a couple of cupboards and—the thing Sam was most proud of—a proper four-poster bed, tucked away behind a thick canvas curtain. In these parts, very few people could afford more than a straw mattress on the floor and Sam was justifiably proud of the fact that he and Dean had a proper bed. There had been one or two suggestive comments made (by Alastair's cohorts for the most part), but in an area where poverty was rife and space was at a premium, it wasn't at all uncommon for siblings to share a bed. And in the middle of winter, when the temperature in New York had dipped to well below freezing, the opportunity to share body heat was invaluable. Dean and Sam Winchester slept together in only the most literal sense of the word; the fact that they were brothers aside, they were both far too interested in girls to look at each other with anything other than strictly fraternal love. Still, the many men who'd been on the receiving end of Sam's cold, clinical violence would've been astounded to hear that the rage-filled maiming-machine who'd pounded them bloody had trouble falling asleep unless his big brother's arms were wrapped around him. Sam sighed. Azazel hadn't been too far off the mark when he'd told them they were unhealthily co-dependent.

Dean wasn't in the main part of the room, but Sam could hear splashing coming from the tiny annex off to the side. Here, they had set up a tub, a wash basin and a commode and although there wasn't room for more than one person to enter the annex at a time, the boys relished having a private area set aside for washing and grooming. Sam took a deep breath and sighed happily. One of the things he loved most about their home was the clean smell. Dean had fixed up the fire place with a proper chimney that exhausted the smoke outside, and had used his connections to get them real, properly fitted glass windows. Nothing in their room was rotted or broken, they kept the place clean, and Dean even had sweet-smelling incense burning around the place, a trick he'd learnt from a Chinese girl.

Sam moved quietly across the room until he was leaning in the annex door way. The tub was half full of steaming water and Dean was standing next to it, toweling himself vigorously.

'Morning Professor,' he grinned pushing past Sam and heading for the curtained off area they used as a bedroom. 'Tub's still hot if you wanna wash up.'

When they'd first arrived in New York, Sam had wanted to go to school badly, so Dean had organized for him to attend the local mission school a few days a week. He'd spun a huge yarn about their parents having a dairy farm just outside of town and his good looks and quick tongue had deflected all requests to meet their parents for a good long while. _Ma and Pa can't leave the farm, the cows are calving; the cows are sick; they've just got a big order in and they're milking 24/7_. _Ma and Pa can't read_, he'd told them when they'd tried to send notes home. It had taken nearly a year for the teachers to realize that there were no parents and never had been, and Dean had had to yank Sam from class quick smart and go into hiding to avoid the attentions of the Children's Aid Society who wanted to put them both in an orphanage. Dean and Sam had conned the teachers at the mission school into thinking they had parents with a dairy farm for eight whole months, and even though Azazel had taken a razor strop to both of them when he'd found out what they'd been up to, he had been impressed. The lesson hadn't been 'don't pull cons' it had been 'don't pull cons without permission.'

Sam was a very able student and even though he'd been forced to drop out of education, he'd learnt almost as much as the mission school had to teach him anyway. Since then, he'd been self-taught; buying books and reading up on mathematics, history, philosophy, science, and law every chance he got. Dean had been teasing him with the nickname 'professor' since Sam was ten, but Sam was smart enough to know the teasing merely camouflaged Dean's pride in his gifted little brother.

Sam waited until Dean was dressed in his underclothes and then said:

'Dean?'

When his brother looked at him he straightened up and let Dean see the pain he was in; the way he was favoring his left arm.

'Fuck,' said Dean, 'Dislocated?'

'Yeah. Could you pop it back for me?'

Dean nodded.

'Anything else I need to know about?'

Sam unbuckled his trousers, peeled back his bloody underwear and showed his brother the knife slash across his hip.

'It's just a scratch,' he said, 'but the knife was a bit rusty.'

'Shit,' Dean poked at it gently with his fingers, 'it's already starting to heal. Give it a good wash in the tub and we'll get it disinfected with hooch. Let's get your shoulder sorted. On three, okay?' he put his hands on either side of Sam's left shoulder.

'C'mon Sam, you've gotta relax or it's gonna hurt like hell. It's alright. I'll give you fair warning before—'

He slammed Sam's shoulder back into position.

'Sonovabitch!' Sam yelled, 'You call that fair warning?'

Dean shrugged. 'If I give you fair warning you tense up. Gotta catch you by surprise.'

He disappeared from the annex, giving Sam time and privacy to strip his clothes off and get into the tub. He was back almost as soon as Sam was in the water with a tumbler of whiskey which he handed to his younger brother.

Sam took a sip and raised an eyebrow. 'The good stuff, huh?'

'So what happened?'

Sam almost shrugged, but then thought better of it.

'The barber? Over on Orange Street? Decided to take pride in his Irish heritage. We got there to pick up The Trinity's weekly tribute and he told us our services were no longer required, the Dead Rabbits were looking after him now. There was a short, heated conversation, he got a lucky swipe in with the knife, Jack and I showed him the error of his ways and he paid what was owed.'

'And the shoulder?'

Sam took a long drink, his eyes averted.

'That was an accident.' He looked up. 'Gordon kinda lost it when I told him about the barber. I didn't get out the way quick enough.'

Dean's eyes darkened.

'Sonovabitch,' he muttered. 'One day I'm gonna rip that asshole's head off!'

Sam grinned. 'Okay so now that you've done your Mother Hen routine, you wanna get outta here? Let me bathe in private?'

Dean rolled his eyes and moved away.

When Sam finally reappeared Dean was at his side instantly, swabbing his hip with alcohol and tying gauze over the wound, despite Sam swatting at his hands and telling him he could take care of himself.

'Get dressed,' was Dean's only response. 'I'm making eggs and toast.'

'So,' said Dean, when Sam slid into the seat opposite him, 'rumble at the barber's next week, huh? Dead Rabbits'll send a full squad in to defend the barber; Gordon'll send a full squad in to make sure he collects his tribute. All Hell's gonna break loose.'

Sam made a non-committal noise and Dean's eyes narrowed.

'Gordon'd better lead the squad,' he said, 'He will, right?'

Sam had been shoveling away his fried egg while his brother talked and he took another couple of huge bites now to buy himself some time.

'No,' he said eventually, 'Gordon ain't gonna be there. He's heading out day after next to crack the flash toffs' summer cribs; Long Island first, then up to Boston, Maine and so on.'

Dean's eyes tightened in that way that said he was not only angry but a little scared too.

'Oh, so…what? He's gonna leave you to clean up this mess? God damn it Sam! You're only fourteen!'

Sam shoveled the last of his egg and toast into his mouth.

'Actually,' he said, striving for nonchalance and failing badly if Dean's sudden tension was anything to go by, 'Gordon wants me to go with him.'

When he couldn't stand the silence any more, Sam glanced up at Dean.

'You're not going, right?' Dean said.

'Actually…I think I will.'

There was another silence.

'But you'll be gone for, what? Three months?'

'About that,' Sam agreed.

Dean ran a hand across his jaw.

'Why? You got enough work here to keep you busy for months! You don't need to leave.'

'Dean, this is huge! Gordon's a master cracksman and he's never taken anyone with him to hit the summer cribs before. He's got his own Fence out there, always makes a fortune and Azazel and Alastair, they don't get much of a cut. Him letting me in on that? Don't you see, Dean? If Gordon gets shanked, or hanged or when he just gets too old to keep going, I'm gonna be the one to step into his shoes. I need to do this. It's like…God, Dean it's…for me? This is like going to college!'

Dean collected the empty plates and dumped them in the Annex's wash basin.

'I can't believe you're planning to just take off!'

'I'm gonna come back!'

'Are you?'

'Of course I am. Fuck, Dean. You know I have trouble sleeping if I can't hear you breathing! I'm just going to do a Job; that's all.'

Dean studied him intently for a moment and then sighed and nodded.

'I don't like the thought of us being apart. How'm I s'posed to look out for you if you're in another city? But… if it's what you really wanna do, I ain't gonna stop you.'

'Thank you.' Sam said fervently.

Dean turned away. 'I'm gonna hit the sack.'

Sam waited until Dean was tucked up in bed and then slipped in beside him, spooning him from behind and wrapping his arms around him.

'Seriously. Thank you.'

'Get off me you big fuckin' girl,' Dean said, but Sam could hear the grin in his voice, so he knew he wasn't really mad.

-X-

Dean rolled over in bed (far too big and empty now that Sam had gone) and groaned, wishing to Christ his head would stop throbbing. It was pounding so loud it was almost as if…

Dean opened his eyes and cocked an ear towards the door.

Goddamn it. Someone _was_ pounding on his door.

'Fuck off!' he yelled.

'Dean?'

Ah _hell_.

Dean slipped out of bed and threw open the door.

'What?' he glared at Jo.

She looked him up and down.

'You open the door to everyone in your underwear?'

'What d'you care?' he challenged, 'you've seen me wearing less.'

Jo shoved him back through his open door, which she closed behind her.

'You're a class act, Dean. You know the sock's still on the door knob, right?'

Dean frowned. It was habit that was all. So Sam had been gone two months; so there was no-one to warn that there was some hanky panky going on inside; so he'd been so drunk last night that he couldn't even remember who he'd been with, let alone whether he'd thought to take the sock off the door knob when he was done.

'So where is she?'

'Who?'

'The broad you banged last night.'

Dean shrugged. 'Guess I kicked her out. You know I don't like 'em sleeping over.'

'Yeah,' Jo folded her arms, 'I remember. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am.'

Dean raised his eyebrows. 'Fuck off, Jo. I learnt that trick from you.'

Jo's mouth twitched and then she threw her head back and laughed.

'Okay,' she held her hands up, palms out. 'Truce?'

She sat down at the kitchen table.

'How about you offer a lady a coffee? And while you're at it, make one for yourself. You look like shit and you smell like a still.'

Dean dropped some wood into the fireplace and poked at the smoldering embers, stoking the fire.

'Don't see no ladies around here,' he muttered as he filled the kettle with water from the barrel.

'Oh ha ha. I ain't never heard that one before. Unlike you, least I get paid for swingin' my ass all around town!'

Dean's hands stilled over the coffee cups.

'You ain't here with another one of Alastair's sales pitches are you?'

Jo snorted and gave him a bitch face that she must've stolen from Sam. Or maybe Sam stole it from her. Either way, it shut him down fast.

'Okay, okay. Sorry.'

He handed Jo one of the coffee cups, and sat down opposite her.

She reached out and put a hand over his.

'If you would just find yourself a nice girl and settle down, I'm pretty sure Alastair would back off. He just can't stand the fact that you're giving it away for free. You put it about like a whore, Dean; it pisses him off that he ain't makin' a profit outta you.'

'The Trinity doesn't _own_ me.' Dean spat, snatching his hand away. 'What I do in my spare time is my business!'

Jo just looked sad, and okay, Dean didn't believe what he'd just said any more than Jo did. The Trinity _did_ own him, every inch of him, just like they owned Jo; and Ellen; and Sam; and everyone else. The only way out of the Trinity was in a body bag, unless you were as crafty as Artful Andy and you managed to escape to Australia. Dean could fight the unholy threesome all he wanted, but unless he was willing and able to take them all out, ultimately he would always end up doing as he was told. If he wasn't making so much money for them with the cons, the hustles and the counterfeiting scams, Dean knew that Alastair would've forced the whole _brothel_ issue years ago.

Dean ran a tired hand over his face. 'Look,' he said, 'if Alastair just wanted me to play Boy Toy to the wealthy widows, I'd seriously think about it. But you _know_ what he wants, Jo, and I'm not just gonna roll over and do that.'

Jo nodded.

'Well I'm just here as a friend. You've been awful quiet since your last Job and, well, if you don't keep bringin' home the big wins the Trinity's got used to, it's gonna give Alastair all the excuse he needs. So tell me what's goin' on with you. Do you miss Sam? Is that it?'

Now it was Dean's turn to snort. 'Yeah, I miss Sam, but that ain't the problem.'

'Then what is?'

Dean took a sip of his coffee. It was strong and bitter and smacked him upside the head in exactly the same way Jo was doing.

'I fucked up, okay?' he said, 'And no, I don't really wanna talk about it.'

Jo gave him a hard look.

'How d'you fuck up? Are we in danger?'

Dean shook his head.

'You know about my last job?'

Jo nodded.

'Buncha whites with black partners, some even had kids together. Azazel sent you out to blackmail 'em.'

Dean's jaw clenched.

'Right,' he said tightly, 'and that didn't sit well with me. I tried real hard to get outta that gig. Anyway, as luck would have it, I found me an alternative. There was a sick pervert up there who was murdering blacks, just for the hell of it. A rich kid. I showed his daddy proof and then blackmailed daddy for my silence. Only not long after, the kid got himself killed, so of course the blackmail money dried up. Azazel wanted me to go back after the salt 'n' pepper couples but I couldn't. They were good folks, Jo, decent, and…I…just couldn't do it.'

'You liked them,' Jo said softly, 'you liked your marks.'

Dean looked down at the table.

'There was a girl,' he said softly, 'Cassie. Her momma was white, her daddy was black. Smart girl; beautiful; a real spit fire. She was doin' well for herself, passin' as Creole. I…' Dean hunched in on himself and Jo's eyes widened.

'Oh Dean,' she murmured, 'you fell in love. I thought I taught you better'n that, boy! Never fall in love with a mark; never fall in love with a john. Never. It's the golden rule.'

'I know.' Dean looked up, his eyes miserable, 'but I fell hard. So hard, that I told her the truth.'

Jo's eyes narrowed.

'_What_? What truth? You said we weren't in any danger! Goddamn it Dean! What did you tell her?'

'Relax. Not enough for her to identify me or the Trinity. Just enough for her to know what I am. What I do. She…didn't take it too well. So. Yeah.'

'What did you tell Azazel?'

Dean laughed unhappily. 'Like I've ever been able to lie to ol' Yellow Eyes.'

Jo's eyes were full of compassion.

'Bad?'

Dean shrugged.

'Bad enough. Not like I didn't deserve it.'

'Anything I need to take a look at?'

Dean shook his head. 'The bruising's almost gone. And he didn't crack any of my ribs this time, so I'm practically as good as new now.'

Jo sighed and put a hand to his cheek. 'At least he didn't mess up your pretty face.'

Dean grimaced. 'Well he's not stupid, is he? Not gonna make as much money if my face is battered, am I?'

They sat in silence for a while, finishing their coffee, and then Jo said:

'So what you need is a chance to redeem yourself, right?'

Dean pulled a face.

'I guess. What did you have in mind?'

'Alastair's planning a Job—no, wait Dean, not that kind of job, it's a con job.'

'Yeah?'

Jo nodded. 'Yeah. The mark is one of the late Boss Tweed's protégés. Rich as fuck and all of it earned in kickbacks. He plays poker at the Rosewood Club on Fifth Avenue every Friday night and he always hires their penthouse for the evening. According to Alastair's source, this guy is so paranoid that his money'll get cabbaged that he takes it everywhere with him; keeps thousands of dollars strapped to his body at all times. Alastair wants me to go in to Rosewood with one of Azazel's boys. The boy'll be a badger, playing the role of a young gentleman. He'll play poker with the mark but eventually lose to him. I'll play Lady Luck for the mark. When he wins, I'll let him take me up to his room to celebrate. According to Alastair, he'll then put his money in his wall safe and retire to his bed chamber to have his wicked way with me. The badger'll break into the room and empty the safe while I keep the mark safely distracted. You, my dear, would be a perfect badger. What do you say?'

'Sure. Why not? It'll get me on Azazel's good side again if I get in on a big job like that.'

Jo beamed.

'That's great. Clean yourself up and then come over. We'll talk to Alastair and go over the details. This is fantastic Dean! We always did make a great team!'

-X-

The Rosewood Club was strictly black tie, top hat and tails, and it was members and guests only which meant a great deal of background work, setting up fake identities and finding a couple of members they could blackmail into inviting them as guests. Dean was posing as Samuel Remington from Boston, visiting his cousin, a member of the club. And Jo was Mary-Beth, the niece of Major-General William P. Hayes, a very elderly member of the club. When Hayes retired to his bed chamber at nine pm, he gave Jo permission to stay and enjoy herself, and the winks and flirtatious smiles she gave the gathered men left them in no doubt that she was a _niece_ of the 'wink, wink, nod, nod' variety. Dean was playing his _young gentleman_ role with a delicately balanced mixture of cocky bravado and shy innocence. When their target—Alexander Connolly—invited Dean to join his poker game, Dean's delighted smile was ninety percent genuine.

Jo gravitated to Connolly's side and offered to blow on his cards for luck; flirting just exactly the right amount—enough to signal her interest, not enough to make him suspicious. Connolly treated her with polite respect and as time passed and the game progressed Dean could see Jo starting to get a little desperate; for all the interest their mark was showing in her, she may as well have been a leper.

'So Samuel,' Connolly said suddenly, 'How are you enjoying your time in the big city?'

'I'm having a most enjoyable time, thank you, sir.' Dean said earnestly.

'I suppose a charming, fine-looking young man such as yourself has a girl waiting for him back home, right?' Connolly said. His voice was low; rough with an undercurrent that Dean recognized all too well. His eyes came up slowly and not until he was sure they looked honest and innocent. Dean didn't want Connolly to see his jaded, world-weary understanding; the expression that was too hard and far too old for a sheltered young gentleman.

'No, sir,' he said, letting his tongue dart out and swipe across his lips, 'I don't have a girl.' He bit gently at his bottom lip and forced a faint flush to creep onto his face.

Connolly's own lips parted, his eyes darkening briefly with lust and Dean silently cursed Alastair to Hell and back. The man's intel was always first rate; there was no way in Hades he didn't know about Connolly's sexual preferences. But if Dean backed out of the gig now, after all the planning and organizing; if he fucked up another job; Alastair would have him beaten half to death. And worse, he'd drag Jo down with him.

Connolly stroked his foot gently against Dean's calf and Dean tugged self-consciously at his cravat and allowed the appropriate responses to run across his face; shock, desire, guilt, curiosity.

'Well, well,' said Jo, sashaying across to Dean's side of the table, 'No girl back home, eh? Maybe I should be blowing on your cards for good luck instead.'

'You sure?' she breathed in his ear as she leaned forwards to do just that. He gave her the 'okay to carry on' signal and she leaned into him, putting her arms around him in what looked like a very forward move, but was really just her way of liberating the brace drill and the punch rod from inside his jacket. A subtle shift as she straightened up and she had them hidden under her shawl.

'Miss?' Dean said, 'I, uh, I don't think I'm any more interested in you than Mr. Connolly.'

'Perhaps you ought to go on up to your Uncle,' Connolly suggested, 'before you make a fool of yourself.'

Jo pouted and then sighed.

'Fine. Enjoy your evening gentlemen.'

Dean waited until Jo had left the room and then gestured at the cards before meeting Connolly's eyes again.

'Your move, sir,' he said.

Connolly grinned wolfishly. 'Yes,' he mused, 'I rather think it is.'

-X-

Jo stood deep in shadow, her arms tightly folded across her chest and her right foot tapping nervously against the dusty wooden floor. The faint white glow of the full moon danced jaggedly off the broken window pane and Jo used the illumination to watch the front door of the Rosewood Club, focusing on it with the steadfast attention of a fox watching a rabbit hole.

What the Hell was taking Dean so long?

The job itself had been simple enough. She'd hung around in the upstairs corridor and as soon as she'd seen Dean and Connolly disappear into Connolly's room she'd had her ear to the door. When she'd heard Dean ask if they could move things to the bedroom, she'd waited a full five minutes and then picked the lock on the door and edged quietly into the room. Drilling the face of the lock had taken her fifteen minutes and bending the lever out of the way so that it didn't obscure the path of the bolt had taken her a further five minutes. The belt bag was in the safe just as Alastair's source had said it would be and Jo didn't bother to count the money, just snatched it up, yanked her skirts up and fixed it around her waist before sneaking out of the room. The last thing she heard, just before she slipped out the door, was Connolly gasp: 'Oh God! Samuel! That's it. So good.'

Jo folded her arms the other way and rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes. 'God damn it, Dean,' she muttered, 'what are you doing, boy?'

As soon as Jo had left the Rosewood Club she'd hailed a hansom cab and gone straight to Harvelle's Whorehouse to give Alastair the cash.

'Jo,' he'd greeted her cheerfully, 'where's Dean?'

Jo hadn't answered; she'd simply lifted up her skirts and stripped off the money belt. Alastair's eyes had lit up with delight.

'Excellent my dear! So you cracked the safe and Dean played the decoy, eh? Isn't it wonderful that I insist on all my girls and boys having so many different talents? Of course, Dean has always resisted my attempts to, shall we say, cross train him. But he's come through for us now, eh? With flying colors! Is he still with the mark?'

Jo had nodded and Alastair had rubbed his hands together with glee.

'Excellent. Go and wait for him: Across the road where he was supposed to wait for you. Bring him straight back here. I want to debrief you together.'

Jo's attention was snapped back to the present by movement at the door of the Club. It was Dean and Jo's relief was palpable. He hesitated on the sidewalk for a moment and then headed slowly over to the building where she waited. He was limping, just a little bit. Jo probably wouldn't even have noticed if she hadn't been looking for it.

She met him at the door.

'Are you okay?'

Dean nodded.

'You get the cash?' he asked.

'I did. Delivered it to Alastair straight away. He wants us back there now; wants to debrief us.'

Dean snorted. 'Oh I just bet he does.'

Jo smiled tentatively. A snarky Dean was a normal Dean. This was good.

'Let's go,' she said.

'No.' said Dean.

Jo blinked. 'No?'

'No. I'm gonna go home, take a long, hot bath, drink half a bottle of hooch and hit the hay.'

'But Alastair—'

'_Alastair can get fucked._ He _knew_ Jo! He had to. He set me up!_'_

'Yeah, Dean, he probably did. The important thing is…are you okay? Did you get…hurt?'

Dean huffed out a short laugh and ran a hand across his jaw.

'We ain't havin' this conversation,' he said, 'I'm goin' home.'

Jo followed him. Partly because she was worried by his burst of rage and the angry set of his shoulders, but mostly because she lived at Harvelle's and if she went back there without Dean, Alastair would know immediately and it wouldn't be pretty, for either her or Dean.

Dean tried to keep her out of his room, but Jo simply bustled in after him, propelling him forwards with both hands at his waist. He made some token resistance and then stopped fighting her with an exasperated sigh. Jo went straight for the kitchen cupboard and grabbed out a bottle of Old Jake Beam and a bottle of Wil Parker's home-brewed moonshine.

'You want hooch or the good stuff?' she asked.

Dean held out a hand for the hooch and made an impatient noise when Jo turned away to pour a couple of fingers into a glass for him.

'Just give me the bottle,' he grumbled.

Jo handed him the glass with a bright smile.

'Sit down,' she said, 'I'll fill up the tub for you.'

She picked up a big stew pot and headed over to the water barrel, tapping it to gauge how much water was left.

'Sorry Dean,' she said with a frown, 'you don't have enough water to fill the tub.'

She turned around and found Dean standing exactly where she'd left him. His empty glass was sitting on the kitchen table and he was clutching at his stomach with a pained, almost panicky look on his face.

'Go and lie down,' she said.

The fact that he complied without argument was almost frightening.

Jo stoked up the fire and exchanged the stew pot for a flat iron, which she buried deep inside the smoldering embers. She took a spare blanket from the trunk under the bed and when the flat iron was good and hot she wrapped it inside the blanket and took it over to Dean.

'It'll help with the cramps,' she said, placing it gently against his stomach.

Dean folded his arms over his face. His shoulders began to tremble slightly and Jo realized that he was crying. She sat down next to him and murmured meaningless platitudes, rubbing a hand through his hair until he managed to pull himself together.

'Did he…is something…damaged?' he asked, his bleak voice muffled by the arms that still obscured his face.

'I don't know,' Jo said softly, 'Are you bleeding?'

'No.'

'Did he—'

'Yeah.'

'But you're not bleeding?'

'No.'

Jo frowned. 'Are you sure he—'

'—stuck his dick up my ass? Yeah.'

Jo sucked in air slowly.

'I think maybe you'd better tell me exactly what happened tonight.'

Dean was silent for a very long time and then he sighed.

'I knew I had to get him into the bedroom so that you could get at the safe. So I pretended like I was interested, but played shy at the same time, you know? Said I wanted to get away from the door in case somebody knocked, cuz they might hear us. Of course, he was all too happy to move things into the bedroom. I figured we'd talk a bit, and then I'd, ya know, jack him off, suck him if he made a fuss and then… I figured…I'm meant to be a naïve young gentleman…it wouldn't be out of character for me to suddenly feel ashamed of myself and panic; to realize I'd been cavorting with a sodomite; going against God and the law; and to just get the hell outta there.'

Dean stopped talking.

'Good plan,' Jo encouraged, 'That's how I would've played it in your place too.'

'Yeah, well, didn't quite work out like that,' Dean said softly, 'I tried to make him come, first with my hand and then I gave in and let him put it in my mouth, but he made me pull off him just when I thought it was almost over. You know what he did then? He sucked _me_ into _his_ mouth! And you still weren't finished, Jo, so I just…I shut my eyes and, ya know, I figured guy's mouth, girl's mouth, they both feel warm and wet, if I don't open my eyes I can just pretend…' Dean moved his arms and stared intently at Jo. 'I didn't mean to enjoy it,' he whispered.

Jo ran her hand through his hair again. 'It's okay, Dean,' she said, 'It doesn't matter, it's just a natural reaction to stimulation, it doesn't mean anything.'

'He wouldn't let me come,' Dean said after a pause, 'just kept taking me to the edge, over and over again. And then he got out this oil. He dipped his fingers into it and…'

Dean's voice seized up and Jo watched as a single tear welled up and ran down his cheek.

'He used his fingers to stretch you and open you up,' she said matter-of-factly.

Dean nodded and bit at his bottom lip, the tears now flowing freely down his cheeks.

'And he found this spot…inside…,' Dean admitted, 'which…actually…it felt pretty awesome.'

'That's your prostate.'

'Oh.' Dean rubbed a sleeve over his face and then peered up at Jo, 'how come you know so much about this stuff?'

Jo rolled her eyes.

'Professional interest. Whores talk shop too ya know.'

'Right.' Dean picked a spot over Jo's left shoulder and said: 'I was a complete mess. He'd kept me on the edge so long; I was so…over-stimulated…that I couldn't think straight. When he suddenly pulled off and out and rolled me over, it never even occurred to me to fight it. And then he's telling me that it's easier to do it this way the first time, but next time he wants to be looking into my pretty green eyes when he takes me,' Dean paused and took a shaky breath, 'It hurt. Not as bad as I thought it would, but still. And I really didn't wanna do it but…I'd been on the edge so long…'

'It's okay, Dean,' Jo said gently, 'you're a young, healthy guy. It's perfectly normal to get off. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean you wanted it, doesn't mean you're a pansy. It sounds like Connolly was considerate in bed and that's a good thing. You're probably not damaged, but some cramping is pretty much inevitable after that kind of sex. You're gonna be okay. Okay?'

Dean looked at her skeptically, and then he nodded.

'But Dean?' Jo fixed him with a stern look, 'We really need to go and report in to Alastair.'

-X-

Alastair wanted _details_ and Dean refused to give them to him, saying simply that he'd entertained Connolly while Jo had cracked the safe. Of course, it went without saying that what Alastair wanted, Alastair got and Dean might've been a stubborn sonovabitch, but when Alastair grabbed him by the hair, held a large knife flush up against his balls and promised to carve him into a whole new creature if he didn't describe what had happened in lurid detail, Dean caved. He gave Alastair a clinical account of his time with Connolly and he was able to do it without any emotion, which clearly disappointed Alastair, who needled and stirred, trying to provoke Dean into some kind of outburst. Dean didn't give him the satisfaction and Jo was proud of him.

'C'mon,' she said when Alastair finally dismissed them, 'you may as well come and see Momma; she's only gonna be round pounding on your front door in an hour or so when she gets wind of what happened tonight.'

Dean snorted.

'You could try not telling her?'

Jo shoved him sideways. 'This is Ellen Harvelle we're talkin' about. She wants you to talk, you talk.'

The minute Dean and Jo were through the door Ellen wrapped her arms around Dean and held him tight.

'Oh baby,' she said, 'Are you okay?'

Dean pulled away. 'You knew?'

'About Connolly's proclivities, yes. But Alastair didn't give up the mark's name until your final briefing. I didn't know who you were going after until tonight and as soon as I found out,' Ellen cupped Dean's face with her hands, 'as soon as I found out, I knew he'd set you up. Are you okay, darlin'?'

Dean shrugged. 'Yeah. Jo…looked after me…explained a few things.' He reached out and squeezed Jo's hand. 'If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't've got through that conversation with Alastair. Thank you.'

Ellen and Jo both hugged him and Dean soon found himself reclining comfortably on Ellen's bed, in between Ellen and Jo, drinking tea, eating apple pie and chatting comfortably with the two of them about con jobs, hustles, johns and their weird sexual kinks.

'I swear to God!' Ellen laughed, 'A custom made linen diaper! And all he wants to do is sit on my lap and suck his thumb.'

'Enoch Hudson?' Dean shook his head incredulously, 'Ward Boss of the North Ward? Goddamn! Are we blackmailing him too?'

'Hell yes. Why do you think Alastair is practically untouchable? He's got dirt on just about everyone. And Sugar? In this town, there's a lot of dirt.'

Dean woke up a few hours later to find that the sun was well up and he had been sleeping in Ellen's bed with Ellen herself on one side of him and Jo on the other. He looked from one to the other, smirked, then nearly hit the ceiling when Ellen, her eyes still closed, said: 'You wipe that smirk off your face, boy. And don't even think about sayin' what you're thinkin' right now or I'll wash your mouth out with soap.'

Dean laughed. 'Goddamn, you're scary!' He paused, 'Hey, Ellen?'

'Yes, Sugar?'

'This place…it's got your name. Harvelle's. But Alastair owns it.'

Ellen opened her eyes and stared at him.

'You ain't heard the story yet?'

Dean shook his head.

'I did own Harvelles. Me and my Bill owned it. We both grew up in the business and we wanted to run someplace classy; somewhere that treated its workers with respect. So we started this place. Then the Trinity moved into town. Alastair wanted to buy us out, but we wouldn't sell. So Alastair had my Bill killed. I can't prove it of course, but I know it in my bones.'

'I'm sorry,' Dean whispered.

Ellen smiled sadly and they lay in silence for a while.

'Ellen?'

'Yes, Hun?'

'Thank you. For last night. For just being there.'

Ellen patted his cheek.

'That's what family's for,' she said.

-X-

Jimmy's nose exploded under Dean's fist, and blood and sweat sprayed the air, staining hands and clothes, as Jimmy staggered and fell.

'Call me that again,' Dean demanded. 'Go on.'

'Phug,' said Jimmy, 'you browg by Goddamn dose!'

Dean pulled his knife out of his boot and held it against Jimmy's throat. 'You're damn lucky that's all I did. You call me that again and I will end you. We clear?'

Jimmy nodded frantically so Dean spat on him and left.

The last fortnight had been a nightmare. Since 'The Connolly Incident' (as Dean was euphemistically referring to it) Alastair had really turned up the heat, trying every trick in the book to bully Dean into his brothels. Even worse, news of The Incident had leaked to everyone who worked for the Unholy Trinity and Dean'd had to have over a dozen fist fights in the last week alone. If one more boy tauntingly called him a Molly, a pansy, a Mary Ann or a queer, Dean really was going to start knifing people. But even worse than that, Connolly had given a decent description of Dean to the police, identifying him as a young man who'd lost at poker and then been seen hanging around outside Connolly's room, no doubt planning to steal back the money he'd lost. They didn't have his real name, thank God, but there had been a good quality sketch of him done and it was inconvenient to say the least, that Dean had to keep his head down in public and try not to draw too much attention to himself. It was really messing with his ability to do his job and Alastair had actually had the audacity to try to convince Dean that he'd be _safer_ in one of the brothels!

Dean hurried up the stairs to his room, taking them two at a time, eager to pour himself a drink or twelve and try to put the whole nightmare behind him for one more night. As soon as he closed the front door behind him he froze, realizing instinctively that there was someone in his room. Before he had time to do much more than get into a fighting stance, he was tackled from behind and he ducked and rolled, pulling his attacker down with him. Unfortunately his attacker was a good fighter and he used Dean's slightly bigger body mass to propel them forward so that Dean ended up flat on his back on the floor with his attacker sitting on top of him.

'Getting sloppy big brother,' Sammy grinned down at him.

Dean lifted his legs, wrapped them around Sammy's neck and flipped him over.

'Or not,' Sam muttered, staring up at Dean with a big grin on his face.

'Say uncle,' Dean demanded and he waited until Sam pounded the floor before getting to his feet and reaching a hand down to help his brother up.

'Sam?' said a female voice. Dean turned quickly and drank in the sight of the attractive blonde standing at the foot of the bed wearing a white, almost see-through, night-gown.

'Well hello, sweetheart,' he said.

'Dean,' Sam said seriously, 'I'd like you to meet my girlfriend Jessica. Jessica, this is my brother Dean.'

'You sly dog, Sammy,' Dean said out of the corner of his mouth. He turned back to Jessica. 'You are way outta my brother's league.'

Jessica blushed prettily.

'Well, it was nice meetin' you,' Dean's grin was slightly off, 'but, uh, I've just gotta borrow your boyfriend, talk about some family stuff, so if you'll excuse us for a moment?'

'No,' said Sam, going to Jessica and putting an arm around her, 'anything you have to say, you can say in front of Jess.'

Dean raised an eyebrow. 'Okay…while you were away, I did some work for Alastair…'

Sam's face hardened.

'Jessica,' he said, 'would you excuse us for a moment? We're just gonna go outside.'

They went up the stairs and onto the roof. It was a place they often went at night, somewhere they could sit and drink and look up at the stars, somewhere they could talk freely; somewhere they could enjoy just being brothers and forget about all the crap that life inevitably threw their way. Of course, this time they weren't there to forget.

'What the Hell, Dean?' Sam demanded as soon as they were seated in their usual spot, 'I go away for a few months and you decide to just bend over for Alastair?'

'No! Well…yes. I mean, not for Alastair, exactly. It's…okay…just shut up and listen, Sammy.'

Dean stared straight ahead and explained The Connolly Incident to Sam in a matter-of-fact tone. When he'd finished he steeled himself and turned to face his brother, expecting to find scorn, derision or disgust on the younger boy's face.

Instead he found that Sam was quietly crying.

'I am…so sorry,' he said, 'I should've been here for you. You shouldn't've had to go through that alone.'

'Oh God,' Dean grimaced, 'we're not gonna have to hug, are we?'

Sam laughed wetly and wiped at his face.

'I had Ellen and Jo,' Dean said, 'and they were probably a damn sight more practical use than you would've been.'

Sam sniffed.

'Yeah, you're right. Sorry. I just…I don't know what to say,' he cleared his throat, So I guess you're struggling to find jobs right now, what with the Wanted posters and all?'

Dean nodded.

'You and Dad still running the counterfeit bank note scams?'

Dean scowled.

'Azazel is _not_ our father, Sam; don't call him that!'

Sam held his hands up, palms out. 'Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking that oughta buy you some time, ya know, before Alastair starts insisting…'

Dean nodded.

'What about you Sammy? What's the story with your girl?'

Sam's eyes went gooey.

'Soon as I'm old enough, I'm gonna marry that girl. She's…amazing,' he looked at Dean quickly, 'We met in Boston. I told her I was a teacher; that I was up in Boston doing some tutoring over the summer, but that I had a job in New York. I need you to help me keep that story believable until I can make it real.'

Dean gaped at him. 'What d'ya mean, _until you can make it real_?'

Sam grinned.

'I'm finished. Out. Me and Jess, we're gonna live a normal life. Get married, have kids, go legal.'

Dean stared at him.

'Are you insane? The Trinity isn't just gonna let you go!'

'Andy got out.'

Dean snorted. 'Andy moved to Australia. Do you wanna move to Australia?'

Sam shrugged. 'Not really. But we don't have to go that far, maybe just…back out West?'

Dean shook his head.

'Andy spent months planning his escape. You know that, right? We do this, it ain't gonna happen overnight. You're gonna have to keep workin' until then.'

Sam shook his head.

'I ain't workin', not Jobs, it ain't fair on Jess.'

Dean regarded him incredulously.

'What does Gordon think about all this?'

Sam shrugged. 'Gordon had some stuff he wanted to finish up by himself. I met Jess after we split.'

'And her folks had no problem with her packin' up and takin' off with a boy she'd just met?'

'Her parents are dead. Jess was livin' with her sister and her sister's husband. It was…awkward.'

Dean sighed. He stretched his legs out, tipped his head back to look up at the stars and really wished that he'd thought to grab the whiskey bottle before he and Sam had headed up here.

'You and Jess can have the bed,' he said finally, 'I'd offer to move out, but I really can't right now. Azazel's boys are all givin' me a hard time so I don't wanna crash in their digs; and the only other alternative would be Ellen's. And with Alastair ridin' me so hard about goin' to work for him, Harvelle's is the last place I wanna be sleepin'. So,' he gave Sam a hard look, 'you remember what the sock's for, right? Cuz, dude, I don't wanna see it or hear it.'

Sam blushed, which made Dean grin. It was good having his brother back, even if he had just turned their world on its head. But if Sam wanted normal, then maybe it _was_ time to get out of New York. They'd spent the first two years that they'd been in the city covertly trying to find their Dad. They had never given The Trinity their last name, had never mentioned their Dad to Azazel, Gordon or Alastair, but they'd nosed around New York's underworld pretty extensively. They had never enquired with the police, because right from the beginning of their time in the city they'd been committing crimes and they were too damn scared to go anywhere near the forces of law and order. But they had checked out the cemetery and whenever they got an opportunity to talk to someone who'd been in the Tombs they had given that person their Dad's first name and description, just in case, but they had never managed to pick up any hint of John Winchester's trail here in New York. The last few years they'd just been treading water, doing what they had to do to survive, with no real plans for the future. Maybe now was the right time to take stock and to decide what they really wanted. Maybe Sam was right; maybe they should just pack up, head out west and start again. Maybe it was time to accept that they were never going to find their father and to move on with their own lives.

Dean turned back to his brother.

'You want normal, Sammy, then I'll back your play. We'll figure it out somehow.'

The grateful smile on Sam's face? That was all Dean needed to feel content.

-X-

Sam had never been so happy. Dean had helped him to mock up some papers that said he'd matriculated from school and had experience pupil teaching out west. With those, he'd managed to get a job at the local mission school teaching the smallest children their ABCs. He was still working for Gordon; had accepted that he couldn't get completely out without some long term planning; but he had given up his second-in-command role and stepped back, explaining that he had his girl to think about now and that soon enough she'd be his wife and they'd have children; that he wanted to give them a safe, normal life. Gordon hadn't been pleased, but he'd been surprisingly accommodating and Sam was far too happy; far too deeply in love with Jessica; to be suspicious.

Fortunately, Dean was suspicious enough for the both of them. He was watching Gordon like a hawk as well as keeping his ear to the ground and he'd heard enough whispers to know that Gordon was pretty pissed at Sam. But try as he might, Dean couldn't burst Sam's happy bubble; his baby brother just didn't want to know. Sam was chasing after normal with willful determination and seemed hell bent on turning a blind eye to any suggestion that the Job might be going to interfere with his happily ever after.

Dean hadn't been able to work any cons or hustles since Wanted posters of him started appearing all over town, and the counterfeiting scams had to be spaced out, the fake notes used sparingly, or the Secret Service was likely to descend, so his ability to earn had been a little thin. One of the upsides to Sam stepping back was that Gordon frequently needed extra assistance, and a job that was done in the dark, where it was imperative that no-one see you, was exactly what Dean needed, so he stepped up to fill the breach left by his baby brother. Gordon was surprisingly good company and the more Dean worked with him, the less he hated him. He didn't trust him, not by a long shot, but Dean learned a lot from Gordon over the months that followed and they established an uneasy camaraderie.

Sam was astonished by how easy it was to keep Jessica in the dark about his past. She loved him, trusted him, and she didn't ask questions. She'd obviously worked out for herself that he'd had a rough upbringing, but that was hardly unusual. The war had created a lot of orphans and a lot of poverty, and there were thousands of neglected and abandoned children roaming the city's streets; homeless, destitute street urchins, doing whatever it took to keep body and soul together. Jessica didn't ask about Sam's past because she didn't care what he'd had to do to survive. Her boyfriend was a good man, he had provided her with a nice home, he had a teaching job, just as he'd said he did, and he and his brother between them brought in enough money to keep them comfortable. And if Sam occasionally went out drinking with his brother, if he occasionally came home with cuts and bruises because he and Dean had gotten into a bar fight, well he was no worse than a lot of other men. Jessica knew that Sam could be violent, had seen the rage within him bubble close to the surface from time to time, but he was never forceful with her, never anything but loving and tender.

Sam was in love, he was happy, life was good.

'Sam,' Dean's voice, barely more than a whisper, jolted the younger Winchester from his sleep.

'What?' he grumbled.

'Azazel sent me to get you,' Dean said quietly. 'We're on red alert, dude. All hands on deck.'

Sam rubbed at his eyes and sat up.

'Dead Rabbits?'

Dean's shrug was barely visible in the dark.

'Dunno. I just got back from a Job with Gordon. Azazel just said it was a red alert and I needed to come get you.'

'Sam?' Jessica stirred beside him.

'Shh. Just gotta go help my brother with something. I'll be back soon.'

'But it's the middle of the night!' Jess protested sleepily, 'and you've got work in the morning.'

'It's okay,' Sam reassured her.

'I'll be waitin' outside,' Dean said, and backed away.

Sam kissed Jessica, stroked her hair softly and murmured sweet nothings in her ear, promising her that everything would be okay.

'But what's wrong?' she persisted, 'why do you have to take off with your brother in the middle of the night?'

Sam sighed.

'There's this guy, Jess, he practically raised me and Dean. He's in some trouble and I've gotta go and help him.'

Jessica frowned. 'Trouble? What kind of trouble? Are you gonna be in danger?'

'No,' Sam kissed her and smoothed her hair again, 'no baby. He's just holed up in a saloon with his best buddy Old Jake Beam and we just need to get him home before he takes a swing at the wrong guy. I promise Jess, everything's gonna be okay. You just go back to sleep.'

Jess kissed him back and then nuzzled against his throat.

'You be careful. Alright?' she said sternly.

Sam sighed contently against her hair.

'What would I do without you, Jess?'

Jessica grinned. 'Crash and burn,' she said.

-X-

Sam slipped quietly into the abandoned warehouse and pulled up short when his brother stopped suddenly in front of him.

'Are we in the right place?' Sam breathed into his brother's ear.

'Yeah.'

Ice crept up Sam's spine.

'Huh,' he said, 'Guess nobody else got the red alert memo.'

Dean held up a finger for silence.

'Over there,' he murmured, 'by the rear door.'

Sam caught a glint of movement in the shadows opposite them just as a couple of Gordon's men burst abruptly through the door behind them and grabbed them, pinning their arms tightly behind their backs.

'Hey!' Dean shouted as they were hustled towards Gordon and Azazel, who had emerged from the shadows and now stood looming over them.

'Thank you for joining us,' Azazel said gravely.

'What the hell, Azazel?' Dean spat.

'What's going on?' Sam asked softly.

Azazel stared at Sam, his eyes cold. 'I have plans for you, son,' he said. 'You're a special breed and I didn't invest my time and effort; Gordon didn't invest his time and effort; training you up, just so you could go soft, refuse your inheritance and play house with your girl. She's no good for you, Sammy boy. She has to go.'

'No,' Sam snarled. 'You don't get it. I _love_ Jessica. I want to marry her. I want out.'

Azazel laughed and it was the single most frightening thing that Sam had heard in a long while.

'No, Sam,' he said. '_You_ don't get it. The Trinity _owns_ you; body, mind and soul. You don't get to leave; there is no out. You're only commitment is to us—you get to honor and obey _us_, 'til death do us part. And your girl? Jessica, is it? She has to go.'

Sam stared at him uncomprehendingly and then he heard the loud clanging bells of the fire wagons and the squealing whine of the hand-cranked fire sirens. Dean watched as horrified comprehension filled his brother's face.

'No,' Sam whispered, 'NOOOO,' he screamed. He spun quickly and took out one of Gordon's men and Dean followed his brother's lead and punched his way through the other one just as quickly.

Sam ran through the dark, smoke-filled streets praying a silent litany in time with the beat of his feet: '_Please, God, please God, please God_…'

There were three fire crews fighting for the right to put the fire out; in the meantime it raged out of control and leapt from Sam and Dean's building to the one next door. Looters were already smashing their way into the building and making off with whatever they could grab and in the chaos the boys were able to bypass the firemen and fight their way into the building. It soon became apparent that their room had been at the epicenter of the blaze and there was too much heat for them to get inside. That didn't stop Sam from trying though. He threw himself repeatedly at the roaring wall of flame, shielding his face from the heat and shrugging off Dean's attempts to hold him back. But each time, the intense heat forced him to back off, cursing, begging, and crying, desperate to get to Jessica but completely unable to do so. Eventually he collapsed to the floor, moaning Jessica's name and Dean had to pick him up and carry him bodily outside.

'She's d-dead,' he stuttered, his body shaking with grief, 'Th-They d-did this and it's m-m-y f-f-ault. If I hadn't b-brought her here…I k-k-killed her, Dean. I killed Jess.'

Dean half dragged, half pushed his numb, stumbling brother away from the crime scene and down the road to a squalid squat that was frequented by a lot of the unaffiliated street urchins. He propped Sam in a corner, told him to stay put and then headed back to the scene to see what he could find out. He stood at the back of the crowd of onlookers and watched as a charred body was pulled from the house. A murmur spread back through the crowd that there had been a knife sticking out of the body; that it had been a murder. Dean stayed until the police arrived, hovering on the periphery of conversations, trying to pick up whatever gossip he could. When the police started to move among the crowd, asking questions about the room's tenants, asking if anyone knew them, as they were the prime suspects, Dean slipped quietly away and headed slowly back to the squat where he'd left Sam.

Christ, what a mess. The Trinity had killed Jessica in order to pull Sam back into the game and they'd done it in such a way that he and Sam would become the prime suspects in her murder. If they wanted to avoid the drop they were going to need the Trinity's protection, which meant they had no choice now but to go back into the fold, to accept that they were owned, that they had no choice but to obey. Dean rubbed a tired hand across his eyes, convinced that things couldn't get any worse.

He was wrong.

-X-

Sam drew up his knees, wrapped his arms tightly around them and began to rock back and forth as his grief tore itself from his throat in guttural, primal sobs. His beautiful girl; his Jessica; was gone. Part of him didn't believe it; part of him was convinced that it was all some sick joke; that he was going to wake up any minute now and find that it was all a nightmare.

But those flames had been all too real and Sam knew, _knew_, that this was really happening. His Jessica was gone. They'd killed her. And it was his fault. He'd been so desperate for normal that he'd forgotten how dangerous his world really was. He'd dragged Jess—innocent, loving Jess—into his world and then he'd failed to protect her from it. The pain…the guilt…Sam couldn't stand it; couldn't stand to be in his own skin knowing that he should've seen this coming, should've kept her safe. His chest heaved and ached, and he felt light-headed and panicky; as though he were choking or drowning. Despair was welling up from deep inside him and threatening to overwhelm his body. It was about to render him useless and that…_no_…he had to rein in the despair, channel it; use it. He couldn't afford any emotions that would make him weak; he needed strength now. The strength to do what needed to be done. It was his fault that Jessica was dead; she'd been killed because of him, and he deserved…_needed_ to be punished for that.

But he hadn't been the one to light the match. Sam wiped at his tears, lungs working overtime as he slowly regained control. _Azazel_. The aching hole in Sam's heart blazed with hatred; it burnt bright and fierce and scorched away all the misery and despair. Azazel had done this. He'd given the order. Sam staggered to his feet, his face twisted with rage, as it became clear to him just what he had to do to atone for Jessica's death.

'You're a dead man, _Dad_,' he muttered, 'a fuckin' dead man.'

-X-

When Dean got back to the squat, the corner where he'd left Sam was empty.

'Hey kid?' he spoke to the nearest urchin, 'the guy I left here? Where'd he go?'

The kid shrugged. 'He was cryin' and talkin' to himself. Said somethin' about his Dad bein' a dead man.'

Dean bit back a curse. Leaving Sam alone had been a mistake, but he hadn't had much of a choice; he couldn't have taken him to the crime scene and he'd thought…hoped…that Sam would wait for him, that they would work together; decide together what they would do next. But no, Sam had to go off half-cocked. Dean could just imagine his little brother, crazed with grief, going straight for Azazel's throat, like a pitt bull off-leash. And that? No way that ended well. Dean ran, his own panic setting in as he realizing just what serious trouble his brother was headed for. He bounded up the stairs at Azazel's digs, his foot going through a couple of rotted boards and cutting his leg, but he didn't care, he had to get to Sammy before the kid did something stupid.

He was too late. Sam was curled on the floor and Gordon and several of his men were beating the living daylights out of him, feet and fists flying as they kicked him and punched him, while Azazel sat back and watched, sipping from his silver flask as Sam groaned and whimpered and tried to cover his head.

'No!' Dean roared. He plunged in recklessly, throwing himself into the ecstasy of violence with willful abandon. One of Gordon's henchmen turned on him, slamming a meaty fist into Dean's head and knocking him viciously to the floor. Dean shook himself, dazed and then his eyes focused on the large bowie knife that the henchman was brandishing at him.

'Stay out of it,' he snarled. 'This ain't a fight. It's a punishment. Azazel ordered it.'

Dean choked off a sob and crawled to Azazel, throwing himself at the man's feet. 'Please,' he begged, '_please_. Stop this. I'll talk to him. Get him under control.'

Azazel shook his head. 'It's too late now. He tried to kill me. Jessica's death seems to have pushed him over the edge. It's regrettable and not at all how I wanted this to go, but…he's become too dangerous for us to let him live.'

'_Please! Please_!' Dean was openly sobbing now, grasping at Azazel's leg as he begged shamelessly for his brother's life. Azazel pushed him roughly away, sending Dean sprawling face first onto the dirty, wooden floor. Dean dragged himself to his feet immediately. This couldn't be it. There had to be something he could do. This was Sammy; his baby brother. It was his job to look out for him. He could run back in there, run onto that bastard's knife and they could die together or…or…

Dean turned and ran. He didn't stop running until he got to Harvelle's Whorehouse, going in the employee's entrance and sprinting up the back stairs towards the area where Alastair kept an office.

'Where's Alastair?' he demanded of the guy guarding the door, 'Is he in there?'

The guy nodded.

'Tell him Dean needs to see him. Tell him it's urgent.'

Far too many moments later Dean was ushered into Alastair's office.

'Well, well,' Alastair said, 'to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?'

'I wanna make a deal,' Dean blurted out, cutting off Alastair's cordial greeting. 'Azazel and Gordon, they're killing my brother, right now. You can stop it; you're the only one they'll listen to. You stop it and I…I'll do whatever you want.'

Alastair steepled his hands on the desk in front of him and watched Dean lazily, a lion sizing up his prey.

'Well now,' he said, the brightness of his eyes betraying his sleepy tone, 'that is interesting.'

'Please,' Dean begged, 'They're at Azazel's place, you have to hurry.'

Alastair picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink well and then hastily scribbled something on a piece of paper. He folded it, placed his seal across the fold and then rang a bell. 'Take this to Azazel's place,' he said to the men who arrived, 'give it to Azazel. Hurry.'

Alastair reached into his desk drawer and took out another piece of paper, this one with writing on it. He quickly penned a couple of additional lines at the bottom of the page, signed his name with a flourish and then passed the paper to Dean.

'What's this?' Dean asked.

'It's your contract.'

Alastair watched as Dean slowly read through it, becoming progressively paler as he did. Alastair rather liked pale on the boy, it made his freckles stand out and his eyes seem even greener.

Eventually the boy raised fear-filled eyes and stared at Alastair. Alastair licked his lips.

'I…you put here that the contract is null and void if Sammy dies?'

Alastair nodded. 'Unless it's by his own hand. On the flipside, if you try to get out of your contract, I'll let Azazel and Gordon finish what they started.'

Dean swallowed visibly.

'You want me to call my men back?' Alastair offered, 'tear up that contract?'

'No! Can I…can I say good bye to Sammy? Before I…?'

'Of course. I'll have two of my men escort you.'

Dean nodded, and then picked up the quill with shaking fingers and dipped it in the ink well. He signed his name and then slid the contract back across the desk to Alastair. Alastair grinned and pulled Dean to him. He fisted his hands in Dean's hair and kissed him hard, his tongue forcefully demanding entry and his lips bruising. Dean was pliant in his arms, allowing Alastair the access he demanded without a fight. Alastair plundered his mouth ruthlessly, trying to provoke some sort of response, but Dean remained passively compliant. Alastair liked complete submission, he really did, but he would've preferred more of a response from Dean, even one of horror and revulsion. Still, there was plenty of time for that; he was sure he'd pull some nice responses from Dean eventually. Alastair pulled away from the boy with a final bite at his lower lip and shook his head at Dean's carefully blank expression. 'Sealed with a kiss,' he smirked.

He sat down and returned to his paperwork.

'Sit down, Dean.'

Dean did as he was told and watched with growing irritation as Alastair started on his paperwork again.

Sometime later, there was a knock at the door and at Alastair's bidding the two men who he'd sent out earlier came in.

'Took him to Doc Rodgers,' one of them said gruffly, 'Kid ain't good, boss. He took one hell of a beatin', but Doc thinks he'll make it.

'Take my new apprentice to say goodbye to his brother,' Alastair said, 'and then escort him to the Hellfire Club. I'll meet you there later, Dean,' he smirked again, 'and show you the ropes, so to speak.'

-X-

Sam was a mess of bloody bandages and bruises when Dean finally saw him. He was lying on a small cot in a tiny room in the private section of Harvelle's and despite his gray pallor he looked up and smiled when Dean entered the room. Dean's escorts stood outside the door and waited while Dean went and sat tentatively on the edge of his brother's bed and tried to mentally prepare himself for the most difficult conversation of his life.

'How ya feelin' Sammy?' he asked.

'Been better.' Sam reached out and took his brother's hand. 'Dean…what did you do?' Dean tried not to react to the tremble in his brother's voice. 'I mean, Azazel and Gordon, they were gonna kill me. Then you ran in, ran out, and the next thing I know a couple of Alastair's guys are bringin' me here.'

Dean drew his thumb back and forth across the back of his brother's hand. He was warm, he had a heart beat and, okay, in a minute he was going to be really pissed at Dean, but at least he was _alive_ to be pissed, and that was all that mattered really.

'Dean?' Sam said sharply, 'Please tell me you didn't make a deal with Alastair?'

Dean stared into his brother's eyes and then lowered his head.

'They were gonna kill you, Sammy,' he whispered, 'I couldn't…I couldn't let that happen.'

Sam gripped his brother's hand tighter. 'Which House?' he demanded.

Dean took a deep breath; tried to stay calm.

'The Hellfire Club.'

Sam made a small pained noise and gripped Dean's hand so tightly that it hurt.

'Are you indentured? Locked in?'

Dean nodded.

'How long?' Sam spat.

'Five years,' Dean said softly.

'_Five_? Fuck, Dean! You'll be dead in three! How do we get you out of this?'

'We don't!' Dean said sharply, 'Me seein' out my contract is your protection. We try to get me outta this, you die.'

'What's to stop them quietly killin' me now that they've got what they want?'

'If you die, my contract becomes null and void.'

Sam stared stonily at his brother. 'Well that's easy then.'

'No!' Dean barked, 'Killin' yourself doesn't count; that won't void my contract. Besides, I'm gonna need you when I get out,' Dean reached out and stroked a shaky hand through Sam's hair, 'Also…you've gotta promise me that you won't try to go after the Trinity. Cuz if you try, they're gonna take it out on me. You understand?'

Before Sam could respond the door opened and one of Alastair's men stuck his head in the room.

'Time's up,' he said.

Sam bit back a sob and pulled Dean to him, hugging him hard and begging him not to leave him alone. Eventually Alastair's men simply took hold of Dean and dragged him from the room. Their grips bruised his arms and their fingernails cut at him like claws, and he cried and struggled, but they didn't care. Sam screamed for his brother, his voice hoarse and broken. The whorehouse doctor tried to physically restrain him, but Sam fought so hard that the doctor finally just jabbed a needle into his arm, sedating him.

Dean staggered to the Hellfire Club in a daze, his eyes blank, and his brain struggling to keep up with everything that was going on. He didn't come back to himself until he was pushed through a heavy wooden door and into a room that looked like some sort of medieval torture chamber. There was a huge A-Frame in the middle of the room and a wide variety of whips, paddles and floggers were hanging from the walls. There were boxes and trays scattered around the place too, filled with all sorts of nasty looking implements that Dean didn't even want to think about.

Without a word, Dean's escorts tore off his clothes and then tied him so tightly to the A-Frame that he couldn't move. And then they left, leaving him all alone, naked, bound and vulnerable. Dean's terrified eyes darted around the room and he was finally unable to contain his shock and terror a moment longer.

'Sam!' he sobbed, 'Sammy!'


	5. Chapter 5

_**A Twist of Fate…Part 5**_

_(See Part 1 for warnings…)_

_**July 1874**_

The first thing Dean noticed when he regained consciousness was that he felt comfortable. He was warm, he didn't hurt too badly, and, if he wasn't mistaken, he was lying in a soft bed and wasn't restrained in any way.

Dean frowned. This was either one hell of a hallucination, or something weird was going on. He should probably open his eyes, but he was scared that if he did reality would come crashing back and he was enjoying this delusion far too much to let it end; it had been a long time — _Oh, God; nearly a year_ — since he'd last been comfortable.

Apart from delusion, Dean couldn't think of a single, rational scenario to explain why he wasn't trussed up on his rack or tied to the small, hard cot in his cell. He tried to recall his most recent memories, but his mind was strangely fuzzy. There'd been a client, earlier that morning. Dean grimaced. The less said about that the better. And then…then…he'd just been dozing on his rack, waiting for the next assault.

A sense…a flavor…of something different…licked at Dean's consciousness and he frowned harder, trying to capture it. The last thing he remembered was…was…the door into the dungeon opening and…there had been a hiss…and then he'd been coughing, couldn't breathe and…

Dean sat bolt upright, gasping for air. Where was he? What was going on? He had to clamp down on the panic; panic wouldn't get him anywhere. Gotta breathe, look around; get a sense of where he was.

No-one came running to hold him down so Dean figured that he was alone for the moment. He was in a small, white-washed room and the shadowy furnishings—the small, soft bed he was sitting in, the wardrobe, the side table with a white porcelain jug and washbowl—suggested that it was a bedroom. It wasn't dark enough to be nighttime, although the wooden shutter at the window was keeping out a lot of the light.

Dean took a deep breath and looked down at himself. He was naked; that was hardly unusual, but there was a pile of clothes at the end of the bed, and clothes…they hadn't happened in a while.

He got up hesitantly and when the creaking of the bed and the floor boards didn't bring someone charging into the room, he got dressed.

Dean tiptoed to the bedroom door and tentatively opened it. He looked right, then left, ran a hand over his jaw and then crept down the stairs, sliding against the bannister like a drunk sliding against a wall. The house was a nice one, not the sort of wealthy house that Dean had once burgled, but certainly a lot nicer than anywhere he'd ever lived.

A brief, wary exploration of the small townhouse confirmed that there was no-one home so Dean hurried towards the front door and tried the knob. The door was deadlocked. _Shit_! Dean leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door and chewed at his bottom lip. Okay. Not a big deal. So he couldn't just waltz out the front door; not like he didn't have some house breaking skills he could use here. Although, Dean grinned wryly, this would be his first ever break and _exit_. He took off his shirt, wrapped it around his fist and broke the front room's window, smashing out all the glass and then climbing through it onto…the front porch of a small General Grant style house in one of New York's middle class districts.

Judging by the position of the sun it was late afternoon. Dean shook his shirt out and put it back on, walked sedately down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, and then he ran. He had no idea how or why he was out of the Hellfire Club; the only thing that made any kind of sense was that someone had bought out his contract. And the kind of evil sonovabitch who decided to buy his own personal sex slave? When Dean came face to face with that particular piece of demon-spawn he wanted to have a Goddamn gun in his hand.

-X-

Something had occurred to Dean as he'd run back towards New York's slum district. What if Alastair had sold his contract to somebody else because Sammy had died? His contract with Alastair became null and void if Sam died; what if Alastair had decided to make a little more profit off of Dean rather than let him go? What if he'd simply sold his contract on to someone who wouldn't be bound by the existing terms?

The thought that Sammy might be gone had Dean's stomach tightening and bile rising in his throat.

The first thing he had to do was find Sammy; to make sure that he was okay. Of course, he had to do it without alerting the Trinity to his presence. The last thing he wanted was to come to the attention of Alastair and end up dragged back to the buyer he'd escaped from; which was why he was hiding in the shadows opposite the Horse's Head Saloon. Jo was sweet on the owner's son, Ash, who oftentimes worked the bar, and Dean knew that Jo was in the habit of popping in for a quick couple of gins before she went to work for the evening. Jo, Dean was fairly sure, would help him find Sammy, no questions asked. And if Sammy…if he was…well, Jo would know.

Dean wedged himself inconspicuously between a cracked stone wall and a large water barrel, his eyes sweeping the streets, continuously looking for his target, or for threats. The intense focus helped him to batter away the shock and distress that was trying to creep in. It didn't stop the trembling that had started up though. Running had given him a use for the adrenalin that was racing through his system like a rabbit fleeing from a fox; now that he was standing still he couldn't seem to stop shaking. He tried to tell himself he was just shivering with cold—it couldn't have been more than sixty-five degrees and he was only wearing trousers, a shirt and a cap—but Dean had been desperately frightened too many times not to recognize the symptoms.

He couldn't quite believe he was out, that was a big part of the problem. He kept expecting to come to and realize that this had all been a delusion. Maybe a john had given him some really strong hallucinogenic drugs; it wouldn't be the first time. Any minute now he might come back to himself, back to reality, and feel the tug of rope at his wrists and ankles, the searing pain of the cat–o-nine-tails across his back, the brutal thrust of a cock deep inside his ass. Dean shuddered and pressed his hands against his face. He had to keep it together, had to find Sammy. And then…then…if it was real, if this was real, maybe a drink or twelve to help him dull the memories, to help him keep it under control. Yeah.

An hour later and Dean was shivering hard, his teeth chattering and his feet numb, and he was sure now that this was real because he knew pain and he knew discomfort and yeah, this was real.

A swish of blue fabric, a blonde head toss, and Dean would know that sexy, confident walk anywhere.

'Jo!' he called, surprised by the raw huskiness of his voice.

He saw her stop and look around, puzzled.

'Jo!' he called again, moving out of the shadows.

Jo's eyes widened and she raised her hands to her lips, her face tightening and her chin wobbling. She took a faltering step towards him and then ran at him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head against his chest.

'Omigod, Dean! Omigod!"

She was sobbing and clinging and he stroked her back, her hair, and murmured in her ear: 'It's okay, I'm here, it's okay,' until eventually she quieted and pulled back, looking up at him critically.

'You look like Hell.'

He tried for the cocksure grin that had always had her eating out of his hand, back when they were dating. The sad look in her eyes told him that he wasn't managing anything more than a sick parody of his trademark sexy, self-confidence, so he let the look slide from his face and nodded obliquely. He'd spent the last nine months in Hell; it wasn't surprising that it showed.

Jo's hand shot out suddenly and slapped his face hard.

'That's for makin' a deal with Alastair,' she growled, 'Jesus Christ, Dean! The Hellfire Club? You would've _died_ before your five years were up!'

'They were gonna kill Sammy,' he said stubbornly, his only defense.

Jo's eyes softened and she reached for him again, pulling his hand against her cheek.

'Sammy's life ain't worth more'n yours, Dean.'

'How is Sam?'

Jo dropped Dean's hand and leaned back against the wall, her arms folded across her chest.

'He's alright as far as I know,' she said, 'I ain't seen much of him these past few months. He's been…doin' his own thing.'

Dean looked at her closely. Something about her tone made him think that Jo didn't approve of whatever it was that Sam had been doing.

'Do you know where I can find him?' he asked.

Jo nodded.

'But how about you?' she said, 'how come you ain't in the Tombs?'

'The Tombs?' Dean shook his head, 'All's I know is I came to locked in some classy crib uptown. I broke out and came here.'

Jo frowned. 'That's weird. Huh. And here I thought you'd know more'n me. The Hellfire Club got raided. Far as I know everybody who was there got arrested, includin' Alastair.'

Dean's mouth fell open.

'But…Alastair…all that blackmailin' he's been doin', the man's untouchable.'

Jo looked surprised for a moment and then shook her head as if to clear it.

'You got a lot to catch up on,' she said, 'We got ourselves a new Chief of Police, goes by the name Michael Angelides. He arrived in town some six months back and brought a lot of his own men with him. Apparently they all fought together in the war; some crack unit, garrisoned in enemy territory together. Seems they're all squeaky clean, completely incorruptible, and they're gunning for the Unholy Trinity.'

Dean slid down the wall and sat down heavily.

'So how come I ain't in the Tombs along with everybody else?'

'You ain't got no shoes on,' Jo commented.

'I don't think that's the reason,' Dean teased.

Jo rolled her eyes, 'I'm just sayin'.'

'Woke up buck naked. Found trousers, a shirt and a cap on the end of my bed. Guess they weren't too sure on my boot size.'

Jo looked thoughtful. 'Guess the big question is: Who are 'they'? And did they get you out before, during or after the raid? And why did they get you out? And are they gonna come lookin' for you?'

'That's four questions. But yeah,' Dean frowned. 'If we gave Ash the address of the house where I woke up, do you reckon he'd be able to ask around, see if he can find out who lives there? That might help us out some. If we figure out _who_ got me outta the Hellfire Club, maybe that'll lead us to _how_ and _why_.'

Jo nodded. 'I'll ask. In the meantime, you want me to take you to Sam?'

Dean's face lit up. 'Yeah.'

Jo's mouth became a thin line.

'Just so you know,' she said softly, 'he's got a new girl in his life. You might know her.' Jo paused and Dean could tell that he really wasn't going to like this. 'Her name's Ruby Cassidy,' Jo said, and Dean's world collapsed.

-X-

If Dean had done right by his little brother in anything, it had been to work his ass off so that he could provide him with a decent home; a place that wasn't moldy, rotted, smoke-filled and rat-infested; a place that had quality (admittedly fifth-hand) furniture; a place that was clean and safe and _theirs_. This place? Where Sammy was living with that skank Ruby? None of the above. It was on the corner of Mulberry and Little Water, an area known for its 'Dens of Death,' and it was the most decrepit, run down slum-shanty that Dean had ever seen. It didn't even have a front door for him to knock on, just stinking, putrid rags hung from the doorway. Dean held his breath and pushed the rags aside gingerly before stepping inside with Jo right at his back. His eyes were blinded in the smoky darkness of the interior, and he heard Ruby's gasp before he saw her.

As soon as he could see her outline, he closed the distance between them, seizing her by the throat. 'You,' he sneered, slamming her against the nearest wall, crushing her beneath his weight.

'Don't!' she croaked, 'I can explain. It's not like you think.'

'Ruby, what's—' Sam pulled up short, his breath hitching in his throat. 'Dean?' Sam's voice sounded distant, confused, '_Dean_? Jesus fuck! _Dean_! You're…what are you doing?'

'What d'you know about your girlfriend, Sammy?' Dean's voice was low and dangerous.

Sam's eyes narrowed.

'What do you mean? What does it matter? You're…fuck, Dean, you're here! You're out!'

'Do you know what she does for a livin'?'

'Yeah. She's a whore. So what? You dated Jo for months when you were younger'n me. Not to mention what you sold yourself into this last year. Don't tell me you've got a problem with her profession bro'.'

'So you got no problem with your girlfriend bein' a mistress of pain at the Hellfire Club?'

'I…_what?_ Ruby? Is that true?'

Dean eased up on her throat a little bit and she coughed, whimpered pathetically and then tried to shake her head.'

'Bull. Shit.' Dean tightened his grip again. 'Aren't you gonna tell Sammy here about all the times we worked together? Put on a show for some sick fuck who wanted to see me whipped and carved and dildo-fucked by a bitch? Aren't you gonna tell him about the snuff jobs? All the times you slit some poor schmuck's throat, just to get a client off?'

'Ruby?' Sam's voice was small, broken, 'is that true?'

Dean eased up on her throat again and the laugh that bubbled out of her was manic.

'I had no choice,' she spat, 'Alastair would've slit _my_ throat if I didn't do what I was told.'

Jo made a small noise of disagreement and Ruby glared at her.

'Fuck you, Jo,' she growled, 'you were never on his rack! You were lucky. You've got no idea!' She turned back to Dean. 'He broke _me_, like he was gonna break you.'

'You _liked_ your work,' Dean sneered.

'So what if I did? Alastair fucked me up good. No pain without pleasure; no pleasure without pain. I did what I had to. You would've broken too in the end.'

'Ruby,' Sam sounded heartbroken, 'if you were being forced to work with my brother, why didn't you tell me? You could've reassured me that he was okay; you could've passed messages for us—'

Ruby's laughter bubbled over again, frothy as blood.

'I'm a loyal employee, Sam. I was told to tell you jack squat, so I told you jack squat.'

'What else were you told to do?' Sam's voice was gentle, and Dean recognized it as his 'softly, softly, catchee monkey' voice. His brother was going to give Ruby a decent length of rope and see if she'd hang herself.

'Just to look after you, baby.' The falseness of her tone was clear to everyone but Ruby. 'To keep you happy. To keep you…' she waved a hand effusively.

'Pliable?' Sam suggested, 'Dependent?'

Ruby saw the noose just as it tightened around her neck. She laughed.

'You're fucked but good, Sammy,' she cackled, 'and your brother, your precious Dean, he's never gonna trust you again!'

'You bitch,' Sam said.

'Aw Sammy,' Ruby cooed, 'you know what I used to love best? The days when I'd come home and ride you hard, just minutes after I'd flayed all the skin from your brother's back. Listening to you calling my name, when just moments ago, he'd been calling yours, begging you to save him! Delicious.'

Dean was so surprised when Sam barreled into him from the side that he lost his grip on Ruby and almost fell to the ground. He saw a brief flash of silver and then Sam had a knife buried in Ruby's gut. Jo bit back a scream and Dean wrapped his arms around her and covered her face, watching in satisfaction as the light went out in Ruby's eyes.

The knife clattered to the ground and Sam's shoulders heaved. He turned and faced his brother, his eyes scared and guilty and begging for forgiveness.

'Dean,' he said. He looked at his blood-stained knife hand. 'Dean?'

'Whoa! I got ya, bro'.'

Dean got to him just as Sam collapsed.

'You okay, Sammy?'

'Yeah…I…' and suddenly Sam's arms were wrapped around him, holding him, squeezing him, as if he planned to never let go. Dean hugged him back just as hard, his eyes shining with tears.

'Touching though this reunion is,' Jo said dryly after a few minutes, 'I think we should probably get the hell outta here.'

It didn't take Sam long to pack—he didn't have a lot of stuff—and Ruby they just left on the floor. They walked Jo back to the Horse's Head Saloon and then found an empty squat on the other side of the Ward. Dean unfurled Sam's bedroll, then Ruby's (she wouldn't need it anymore and he didn't plan on being any more uncomfortable than he had to be) and the brothers sat pressed together, taking comfort in the fact that they were together and alive. When Sam started to tremble, Dean thought it was delayed shock setting in and he tried to talk him through it. The trembling got worse, and Sam started to scratch at his arms.

'Sammy? Are you okay, dude? You're not sick are you?'

'No. No. I just…'

Sam crawled over to his duffel and took out a small silver flask. He flipped off the lid, poured a viscous red-brown liquid into his hand and licked it up.

'What the hell's that?' Dean demanded.

Sam was silent for a moment and then he took a deep breath and turned to face his brother.

'Laudanum,' he said quietly.

'Laudanum? As in…Tincture of Opium?'

'Yeah.'

Dean drew a hand across his mouth.

'Sonovabitch. You an addict Sammy?'

Sam nodded miserably.

'That beating I took, I was in a lot of pain, so they took to givin' it to me to keep me quiet. Then, I couldn't sleep, worrying about what you were goin' through. I met Ruby at Harvelle's, in that room where we…where the doctor was lookin' after me. She said she worked at Harvelle's; said she'd taken a wrong turn. I guess now, it was a set up. We got together and when I couldn't sleep, she was the one who brought me the concentrated Laudanum.'

'To keep you pliable,' Dean thought back to Sam's earlier words, 'dependent.'

Sam nodded. 'It ain't cheap. Not in the quantities I go through it.'

Dean patted the bedroll beside him and Sam crawled back to it, bringing the flask with him.

'You know what we gotta do now, don't you?' Dean said.

Sam nodded. 'Yeah. But…let's start tomorrow. For at least one day I wanna be able to enjoy havin' my brother back, without bein' too strung out to appreciate it.'

-X-

It started slowly; Sam began to twitch, and to scratch incessantly at his arms. His nose began to run, and his eyes became teary. He became progressively more restless and was soon drumming his fingers on his thighs and tapping his feet. Before long, he was rocking back and forth, clutching at his stomach and moaning. After a lot of coaxing from Dean he finally confessed that he had severe stomach cramps. Dean lit a fire, warmed a flat fry pan in it and then wrapped the hot metal in a blanket. He pressed it against his brother's stomach before gathering the younger man into his arms and holding him close, pinning his wrists together so that he couldn't hurt himself with his scratching, and rocking him like a baby.

Earlier that morning Dean had taken Sam in to town to get supplies. Dean had always made sure that he had multiple emergency stashes of his counterfeit bank notes hidden around the place. One such pile had gone up in smoke along with their rooms, and the locations of two had been painfully coaxed out of him by Alastair, but that still left him with one secret stash of cash. After retrieving the money, Dean had bought himself some boots and some clothes, some blankets, some general supplies, some water and some food. Next he had called in at the Horse's Head and had a quick word with Ash. Jo had already passed on the address that Dean had given her and asked Ash to see if he could find out who lived there. All Ash had been able to find out so far was that the house was owned by Joseph McIntyre, a wealthy councilor who owned not just that house, but half the block.

'Thanks, Ash,' Dean said. 'Would you keep trying?'

The Horse's Head wasn't a fancy establishment. It had a low wooden ceiling, held up at various intervals by wooden poles, a wooden floor, and a plain wooden bar, behind which hung a painting of a naked woman. There were maybe a dozen tables and chairs, a few stools up against the bar, and at the far end, a billiard table where Dean had won a decent amount of money over the years.

Dean knocked back the whiskey that Ash had given him on the house, and offered to pay for his second. Ash shrugged him off.

'You want a top up, Sam?' Ash asked.

Sam scowled at him. 'No thanks, Ash. Me and my sarsaparilla are just fine.'

'Quit sulkin',' Dean said, 'we got enough to worry about with the opium flowin' through your veins, without addin' whiskey into the mix. Besides, you are only fifteen.

Sam couldn't even muster up much of a bitch face, which was a testament to how crappy he was feeling.

Dean tossed back his second whiskey shot and got to his feet.

'Thanks Ash. If you find out anything, we're in that abandoned building at the end of Mullen's Alley.'

Ash nodded.

'I'm gonna ask Pamela to go in, day after next, maybe. Do her turtledove act and see what all papers and stuff she can find in the house.'

Pamela worked with Jo at Harvelle's Whorehouse, but she was also an accomplished turtledove. A turtledove was a girl who went uptown dressed like a house maid, picked out a fine house and then waltzed right in through the back door, like she had every right to be there. A turtledove robbed you blind, all the while pretending to polish your silver. It took a lotta sand to be a turtledove and Pamela was one of the best. A feisty, dark haired woman with more front than Macy's, she'd hit on Dean a couple times, grabbing his ass and telling him exactly what she'd like to do to him. Flattered though he'd been, Dean had never taken her up on her offers; he was quietly terrified that she'd eat him alive.

The Turtledove Plan, good as Pam was, had made Dean feel uneasy for some reason.

'You sure that's a good idea? We dunno who we're dealin' with here.'

'Relax. Pamela's good at what she does. Besides, you got a better idea?'

Dean had to admit that he didn't.

'Dean? Think I'm gonna—'

Dean's mind was dragged back to the present as a trembling Sam tore himself out of his brother's arms and vomited violently onto the floor beside them.

'It's okay, Sammy, it's okay.'

Dean rubbed his back comfortingly and when Sam had done heaving and spitting, Dean settled him back into the blankets and bedrolls, cleaned up the mess, and then fetched a pot for next time, before wrapping his arms around his younger brother again.

Sam's body temperature was all over the place. One minute he was panting and sweating, throwing off the blankets, pushing Dean away, and complaining that he was too hot. The next he was covered in goose bumps, shaking under the blankets with his teeth chattering as he begged Dean to hold him closer.

Sam's heart was beating so hard he thought there was a real danger that it might explode. Every part of his body ached, he was slick with sweat, and snot, and tears, and the fact that he had nothing left in his stomach wasn't stopping that particular organ from periodically hurling its own juices up Sam's throat and out his mouth. As time passed the cramps and muscle spasms got worse, he got a killer headache, and he lost his appetite completely. Finally, he couldn't stand for Dean to touch him because it just hurt too much. Even the bedroll and his blankets were causing him pain and Sam would've willingly opened a vein just to make it all stop except that he didn't trust Dean not to follow him down that dark road and he didn't want his brother to die.

By Day Three, the nausea and vomiting had lessened and the cramps and muscle spasms had eased slightly. Dean brought him some gruel and Sam managed to eat half of it and keep it down. Sam felt weak and pathetic and very humbled by the unwavering devotion his brother was showing him. When Dean peeled off Sam's clothes and gently wiped down his aching sweat-slick body with warm water, Sam put his hands over his face and wept.

Later that day, when Sam was clean and fed and feeling a little more human, Jo turned up looking harried.

'Y'all look like shit,' she said in greeting, handing Dean a small cast iron pot. 'Momma sent this for you. It's her rabbit stew.'

Dean set the pot down with a nod of thanks.

'Any news from Ash?'

Jo nodded and sat herself down on the pile of bedrolls and blankets.

'The turtledove ploy didn't work. Turns out it's just a single man who lives there and he don't have no domestic staff. So when Pam let herself in…he had her arrested for break and enter. She's down at the Tombs and with her record she's lookin' at a three year stretch.'

Dean closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand across his jaw. Pam had got in trouble helping him out; this was totally on him.

'What can I do to help her out?'

Jo shrugged.

'You got enough troubles of your own. Ain't much you can do I reckon.'

She paused and looked at him steadily for a moment. 'She got the guy's name.'

Dean lifted his head and met her eyes. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Castiel Novak.'

-X-

'You're not goin' alone,' Sam said for what must've been the fiftieth time.

'Well you ain't comin',' Dean asserted. 'You can barely walk the room without keelin' over.'

It was the same impasse they'd been at all day, but now Dean didn't have any more time for it. He'd had Jo pin a note to the front door of Castiel Novak's house, asking the man to meet him at 2.00 o'clock this afternoon in an abandoned warehouse just past Mulberry Bend. Dean didn't know whether the man would show or not, but he planned to get there early so that if Castiel turned up with a bunch of strong arms, he could quietly get the hell outta there and no harm done.

'You're not goin' alone,' Sam re-iterated stubbornly. 'It ain't safe. And besides, I just got you back; I don't wanna lose you again.'

The hell of it was, Sam was right and Dean knew he was, but Sam wasn't in any fit state to go with him and the way things were right now with the Trinity, there was no-one except Jo, Ellen or Ash who he'd trust to watch his back and he couldn't put this risk on any of them. So he was going to go alone and Sam was just going to have to suck it up.

'Shut up, Sam,' he said harshly. 'I'm the older brother so we're damn well gonna do this my way. I'm gonna go. Alone. And you're gonna stay here and wait for me to get back.'

Sam managed an epic bitchface and Dean was comforted by how much better he must be feeling.

'I'm not—'

Dean cut him off. 'Yeah. You are. Don't make me tie you up, Sammy. I know some real good knots now that you ain't never gonna get out of.'

Sam wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes briefly before sitting down obediently on the bed rolls. Any reference from Dean, no matter how oblique, to how he'd spent the last nine months seemed to deflate Sam's anger real fast.

'You be careful,' Sam said as Dean turned to leave. 'And if you ain't back in three hours, I'm comin' lookin' for you.'

Dean nodded. 'Wouldn't expect anything less, 'bro.'

-X-

It was just an empty warehouse, nothing special; square, wooden, dry, not particularly clean but not especially dirty either. It hadn't been boarded up long, but squatters had already started to move in; Dean had persuaded them to leave with his colt. There were a few holes in the building's façade where the squatters had created their own entrances. Dean boarded these up, boarded up the rear door, and then made a hole of his own. He removed the wooden plank that barred the double front doors of the warehouse and then settled down next to his hole to wait. Castiel now had no choice but to come in the front door. He would come in with the sun right at his back and Dean would get a good look at him, could make sure that he was by himself, before he decided on his next move. If Castiel was by himself and hadn't come armed to the teeth, Dean would move out to confront him. If Castiel turned up with muscle, or a couple of six shooters, Dean would duck out the hole behind him before Castiel even had a chance to see him.

2.00 o'clock came and 2.00 o'clock went.

'Sonovabitch,' Dean muttered, 'he ain't comin.'

Just as Dean was giving up hope and figuring that he may as well cut his losses and leave, the front doors creaked and strained and then slowly, began to push open.

Castiel Novak was perhaps a fraction smaller than Dean. He had dark hair but other than that, all Dean could really see from the shadows where he was hidden, was that the man was wearing a long, beige coat and he appeared to be unarmed.

'Dean?' Castiel's voice rang out firm and loud.

Dean stepped out of the darkness and walked steadily towards Castiel.

Castiel raised his eyes to the heavens. 'Thank you, Lord,' he said fervently, before turning back to Dean. 'I am pleased to see you looking so well. I have been very concerned for your safety.'

His earnest tone took Dean completely by surprise. 'Who _are_ you?' he blurted.

Castiel cocked his head to one side and regarded Dean solemnly, with impossibly blue, unblinking eyes. 'I am the one who freed you from the Hellfire Club,' he said.

'Yeah,' said Dean, pulling the colt out from behind his back and pointing it at Castiel's chest, 'thanks for that.'

Castiel blinked and looked faintly hurt.

'Why _did_ you free me?' Dean asked.

Castiel smiled. 'May I show you something? It is in my inside pocket. May I reach for it?'

Dean nodded. 'Go on.' He kept his gun trained on Castiel's heart.

Castiel reached inside his coat slowly and with exaggerated movements. He withdrew a brown, leather bound book from his inside pocket and held it out towards Dean.

Dean made no move to take it.

'What's that?' he asked.

'It is the journal of John Winchester,' Castiel replied.

Whatever Dean had been expecting, that wasn't it, and he was so shocked that he lowered his gun and staggered back a few steps.

'Are you alright?' Castiel reached for him and Dean brought his gun up quickly.

'Stay where you are.'

Castiel froze.

'How did you get that?' Dean waved his gun at the journal.

'Your father gave it to me.'

Dean lowered his gun. 'How do you know who I am?' he whispered, 'Me and Sam…we ain't been goin' by Winchester up here.'

"Perhaps we could sit?' said Castiel, 'this is a long tale and I wish you to be comfortable. You are safe with me, Dean. I have no desire to hurt you. Your father was a good friend of mine.'

'_Was_?' Dean's voice was barely a whisper, but Castiel heard him.

'I'm sorry, Dean,' Castiel said softly, his eyes liquid with compassion, 'we lost John when General Lee attacked us just outside of Petersburgh.'

Dean's eyes pooled with tears. 'No,' he whispered.

'I am sorry,' Castiel said again, 'your father died in April of '65.'

The gun slipped from Dean's fingers and he sank to the ground.

'All this time…he's been gone practically from the start. Sammy and me, we waited for him, and then we looked for him and…he's gone. He was always gone.'

Dean gave up trying to stop his tears from falling. He sat and sobbed, rocking backwards and forwards, his chest aching and empty, and he didn't care if Castiel tried to hurt him now because he was already hurting too much. He'd hoped…it had always been in the back of his mind…that they would find their father one day and then he could go back to being a kid… it wouldn't all be on him anymore. He'd have somebody to look up to; to go to for advice. Dean lost track of time completely and when he came back to himself and once again began to take in his surroundings, he realized that he wasn't rocking himself, Castiel was rocking him, holding him and rocking him and…Dean peeled himself away gently and huddled next to the wall. Castiel moved to sit next to him.

'This has been a shock for you,' Castiel commented. 'For what it is worth, I am very sorry to have brought you this news.'

Dean nodded. 'Yeah. Thanks.'

There was a moment's silence and then Castiel began to speak:

'I met John Winchester in January of '65. He was not an army regular, nor a starry-eyed volunteer wanting to do his bit for his country. John Winchester had been sent from the prison system. At first we all ignored him. We considered ourselves an elite unit; we'd been fighting together for several years, often deep in enemy territory, and we had no use, we thought, for a criminal who'd chosen the army over imprisonment. We'd had contact with such thugs before and they were, without exception, lazy, untrustworthy cowards. John Winchester, though, he proved to be an exception. He kept to himself, kept his weapons well maintained, he fought well and he was brave and self-sacrificing. Slowly, we began to include him in our camaraderie and eventually we learnt his story. John Winchester had been arrested for attempted murder. He did not flinch from that. Indeed he confessed quite openly that it was his intent to kill two men just as soon as he possibly could. These men were Alastair von Damon and another who your father knew only as Azazel. His reasons are laid out in his journal, along with everything he knew about every evil sonovabitch he came across in his journey to avenge your mother's death. I'll let you read that in your own time. Let me just say that when he lay dying, your father pressed this journal into the hands of his closest friend in our unit, Bobby Singer, and pleaded with him to find his boys and to look after them. Bobby promised that he would. As soon as the war ended, Bobby and I made our way to Kansas City and enquired after you at the Boarding House where we understood that you were residing. You see, your father had sent letters and a great deal of money to the Boarding House mistress explaining that he had been drafted and asking her to let you stay until he could return. When we arrived to take custody of you we found out the truth; that she had taken John's money yet tossed you into the poorhouse just as soon as she could. We went there next, Bobby and I, and enquired after you with the master of the poorhouse, one Beadle Zachariah.' Castiel's eyes flicked to Dean's, 'I may have lost my temper with the Beadle,' he confessed, 'he is…no angel, that man. He is everything I abhor most in a human being and when he bragged so joyously about the way he had so frequently 'disciplined' you…' Castiel bit his bottom lip, 'I may have lost it a little and…severely beaten him with his own cane.'

Dean grinned through his tears. 'You know somethin' Cas? I think I like you.'

Castiel ducked his head.

'We had to leave town rather quickly. But the trail had dried up anyway. We knew that you had been apprenticed to the Undertaker, and we knew that you had run away.' Castiel looked up at Dean again. 'We were told that you had mutilated a corpse.'

Dean shook his head.

'Sammy thought the guy was gonna turn into a…you know what, never mind. That's not important. So I guess you guys gave up then, huh?'

Castiel shook his head. 'We tried to pick up your trail for months, to no avail. And then Bobby gave John's journal to me. His wife, Karen, was waiting at home for him, but I had no-one so I was happy to keep searching for you. Eventually though, I gave up too and sought work with the men from my former unit, work that would give me the opportunity to keep searching for you.'

Dean nodded.

'So what is it that you do, Cas?' he asked.

Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver star. He held it up for Dean to see and the light from the doorway reflected off it, casting long jagged shadows on the walls of the warehouse, which looked to Dean's imagination almost like giant wings.

'I am an officer of the law.' Castiel said.

-X-

Sam tied his bedroll firmly and then lashed it to his duffel.

'A cop, huh?' he said.

'Yeah.' Dean nodded. 'I nearly decked him on principle.'

Sam grinned and shook his head. 'Kinda cool, though,' he said, 'that we've got an officer of the law in our corner.'

Dean snorted. 'He ain't gonna turn a blind eye, Sammy. We ain't neither of us gonna mention anything that might cause Cas to arrest us. And we don't neither of us know anything about how Ruby ended up dead, right?'

Sam's hands stopped their packing and he froze in place for a minute, before resuming his job nonchalantly.

'I should feel bad about that,' he said, 'and I do, in a way.' He frowned, 'I guess a part of me's mournin' the girl she could've been if Alastair hadn't pried open the cracks in her soul. But there's another part of me can't be anythin' but glad that the girl who tortured my brother, got me hooked on Laudanum, and killed people for sport is dead.'

Dean pulled a face. 'How about we don't mention Ruby to anyone, ever again, period? Especially not Castiel.'

Sam hefted his duffel over his shoulder. 'Fine by me. You ready to go?'

Dean nodded.

They'd been in the one squat for six days and now that Sam was doing alright, it was time to move on. On his way back from meeting Castiel, Dean had called in at the Horse's Head to let Ash know how the meeting had gone and he'd learnt that Ruby's body had been discovered. The police had no leads because if you lived south of Mulberry Bend you didn't peach, not even on your fiercest enemy. But that didn't mean people didn't know who'd done what; and it didn't mean there would be no retribution. Vengeance was personal in the slum district and Sam and Dean would have to watch their backs.

The Horse's Head wasn't the Trinity's regular watering hole but you did occasionally get Azazel's boys in there, hustling at the billiard table. Dean told Ash to let Jo know that he and Sam would be moving digs, and then eased out of the place with his head down. He took a long and winding path back to the squat, weaving around the huckster's and peddler's carts, stepping over the shoeshine boys, and the old Italian hags who sat hunched on the pavement, selling knots of stale bread, two for a cent. He crossed the street frequently, stopped often to look in windows and stare at the crowds reflected behind him. He doubled back occasionally, walked briskly, then slowly, and sometimes stopped abruptly. When he was sure that no-one was shadowing him he hurried home and told Sam that Ruby'd been found and they needed to start packing.

'Got a place in mind?' Sam asked as Dean headed towards the door.

'There's a place on Bone Alley, got maybe a dozen kids, no more'n ten years old, squattin' there.'

Sam stared at him. 'We're kickin' kids to the street now?'

Dean shook his head. 'Just gonna take our own corner and mind our own business.'

Sam's eyes narrowed. 'And when they get caught in the cross fire like Jess did?'

'These are tough kids, Sam. They'll know when to scram. If it comes to that.'

Sam huffed. 'Everythin' that's gone down? Them killin' Jess, me goin' after Azazel, you gettin' outta the Hellfire Club, Ruby…trust me Dean, the Trinity are layin' low now but as soon as Alastair gets out on bail—and he will—they're gonna be gunnin' for us. We've become a liability.'

Dean looked at his little brother's earnest hazel eyes and thought of the journal in his pocket.

'I got a lot more to tell you too,' he said, 'but I wanna get outta here first.'

The kids—newsboys and pickpockets—responded to the arrival of two big, well-armed guys with uneasy silence.

'Just need somewhere to crash for a couple days,' Dean said to the room at large. 'We ain't gonna get in your way.'

They set themselves up in the far corner and then sat cross legged on their bedding, their backs leaning against the wall. Dean reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bottle of hooch that Ash had sold him under the counter, and the journal.

'What's that?' Sam asked.

'Moonshine. Ain't the best I've ever had…Rufus'd be disgusted…but desperate times and all that.' Dean took a swig and passed the bottle to Sam.

'Funny, Dean.' Sam took a swallow, pulled a face and handed the bottle back to his brother, 'I meant the book.'

Before Dean could answer, a delegation of dirty, ragged kids approached, a scowling boy with straggly blond hair in the lead.

'Can I help you boys?' Dean looked up at the blond.

'What do you want?' the boy demanded, his voice trembling just a little.

'Told you. A safe place to sleep for a couple days. That's all.'

'You got the law after you?'

Dean laughed easily. 'Who ain't got the law after 'em 'round here?'

That got a couple of grins from the group.

'You got the gangs after you?' the blond asked.

Dean's grin faded. He could lie, but somehow he thought this kid would be able to tell.

'Yeah,' he met the boy's eyes, not asking for anything, just waiting for his next move.

'Dead Rabbits or Unholy Trinity?'

'The Trinity.'

A chill blew through the group, ratcheting up the tension a notch.

For a moment all you could hear was breathing.

'Well,' said the blond finally, his tone nonchalant. 'Ain't you fucked.'

Dean threw his head back and laughed; heard Sammy chuckling quietly beside him.

'Six ways from Sunday,' he agreed.

'What d'you do?' one of the other boys asked.

'Tried to get out,' Sam said darkly.

'And that right there,' said the blond, 'is why I won't join no gang. Once you're in they won't let you out.' He squinted at Sam. 'I know you. You work for that big, black guy. I seen you…' he trailed off, obviously thinking better of admitting what he'd seen Sam do. 'Folks say you're crazy–dangerous cuz the Trinity killed your girl and your brother.'

'I'm his brother,' Dean said, 'and I ain't dead. Wished I was a few times, but I ain't.'

The kids all stared at him.

'Good luck,' the blond said finally, 'I hope you make it.'

When the kids had gone Dean turned to his brother.

'This,' he tapped the book, 'is Dad's journal. Castiel gave it to me.' He hesitated and then said: 'I got bad news, Sam.'

He watched the wheels turn in Sam's head.

'Dad's dead isn't he?'

'Yeah, Sammy. I'm sorry.'

Sam's face was carefully blank. 'Don't take this the wrong way,' he said, 'but I barely remember the man.' He paused to gauge his brother's reaction, concerned that his admission might have made Dean angry. Dean's face was as carefully blank as his own, so he asked: 'Are _you_ okay?'

Dean shrugged. 'He's been gone a long time. I guess deep down I always knew it was gonna come to this.'

Dean explained what Castiel had told him about their Dad, and about Castiel's long search to find them. Sam frowned.

'But…how did he figure you for John's son?'

Dean's face darkened. 'Seems Alastair knew. The cops had a search and seizure warrant for the Club and Castiel was one of the team packing up the files in Alastair's office. Others were going from dun—' Dean bit back the word _dungeon_; no need to give his brother nightmares, 'uh, _room_ to room, rounding up all the…staff. My file was labeled _Dean Turner…AKA Dean Winchester_. As soon as Cas saw the name, he came to find me, convinced his boss I was there under duress, which wasn't too hard to believe given—' Dean stopped himself abruptly. 'Anyway, he got permission to take me back to his place. The doctor who examined me said I'd be unconscious for hours so Cas left me in bed and ducked out to get some food. When he got back I'd gone.'

Sam's fingers twisted and drummed awkwardly for a moment and then he said tentatively: 'I've seen your back, Dean.'

Dean didn't know what to say to that so he took a long drink of hooch.

Sam was looking at him, eyes all big and dark and pleading. 'We can talk about it,' he offered softly, 'if you want to.'

'I don't want to,' Dean snapped immediately.

'Okay,' Sam said gently, 'that's okay; whatever you want. But…it might help if you did…'

Dean shook his head and raised a horrified hand to his face as he felt unbidden tears well up in his eyes and slide down his cheeks.

'I ain't gonna talk about it Sammy,' he said, voice coming out a lot less steady than he would've liked. 'You wouldn't understand. And I could never make you understand.'

'Okay,' Sam nodded, 'but if you change your mind—'

'I won't.'

'But if you _do_,' Sam persisted, 'then I'm always here for you.'

Dean wiped at his face and took another long drink of moonshine.

'You didn't ask the obvious question,' he said.

Sam frowned.

'About Alastair,' Dean hinted.

Sam's face clouded. 'What did that bastard do to you?'

Dean sighed. 'How did _he_ know who I was? We ain't never used the name Winchester up here.'

Once again, Dean watched the cogs in his brother's giant brain whirl, and then Sam's face cleared. 'He knew Dad; chances are he knew about us; our names at least. And _Dean_ ain't exactly a common name. When we turned up he did his research; figured out who we were.' Sam frowned, 'we weren't exactly too subtle in the early days, askin' everyone who'd been in the Tombs if they'd seen 'John' and givin' out his description.'

'Yeah. Not too hard to put all that together and come up with Winchester.' Dean waggled the journal. 'I'm gonna read through this. Apparently everything Dad knew about the people who killed Mom is in here.'

Sam climbed to his feet and stretched. 'And I'm gonna go get supper for us.'

-X-

The front door of the squat was kicked open forcefully and Dean was on his feet with his colt in his hand before his brain had even fully processed the threat. Or, as it turned out, lack of threat.

'Sorry,' said Sam, 'I didn't mean to kick it so hard.'

Sam had a dead goat slung across his shoulders and hessian sacks in each hand.

Dean tucked the colt into the back of his trousers and gestured at the goat.

'What the fuck, Sammy?'

'Found it lying on the street, up where all the Chinese markets are,' he winked at the kids who'd gravitated across to stare. 'Guess it fell off the back of a cart. Their loss, our gain, right?'

Sam put down the sacks and then rolled his shoulders forward, dumping the goat carcass over the top of his head. It hit the floor at his feet, all ungainly splayed legs, its head tilted at an unnatural angle and suddenly, with a harsh intake of breath, Dean is back there; spread legs manacled to the floor, arms crossed at the wrists and chained to the ceiling. He's not blindfolded, they want him to see, want to see his fear, and he's trying to keep his expression clear, trying to reassure Mei Lin with his eyes, let her know she's not alone, that they'll get through this, but the last twenty minutes she's been rapidly losing focus, and finally she goes slack, her head lolling forward, and only the chains are keeping her upright. Her lack of response bores the johns so they turn back to him. He already hurts everywhere, so their attentions don't register too much, it's just more of the same, but he writhes and moans and cries anyway, gives them their money's worth because customer satisfaction is guaranteed and Alastair will take it out of his ass if the johns complain. The johns finish with him and leave and Mei Lin still doesn't rouse. The Quack arrives, finally, frowns, lifts Mei Lin's head, and curses. He takes her pulse and curses again. He rushes out into the hallway and shouts at the security guys.

'Stop those men! We've got a fucking code blue, in here!'

Dean shouts, as well as he can with a ring gag holding his mouth open, but the Quack ignores him. He unchains Mei Lin's wrists and she hits the floor at his feet, all ungainly splayed arms and legs, her head tilted at an unnatural angle.

Dean yells again, and yells, and yells, the noise tearing from his throat; wordless, guttural pain. The Quack whirls on him and slaps his face hard.

'Shut up you worthless whore,' he hisses, 'shut up!' the final word is punctuated by another slap. Dean moans softly and he sees a modicum of understanding flare in the Quack's eyes. The man spins away abruptly and rummages in his black bag for a moment, before turning back to Dean with a syringe in his hand. He plunges it into Dean's thigh just as the head of security walks into the dungeon. The last thing Dean hears before unconsciousness mercifully takes him is the Quack saying: 'Hypovolemic shock. They basically whipped her to death.'

'Dean? Dean? C'mon, man. Please be alright.'

Dean opened his eyes and stared straight up into his brother's frightened gaze.

'You okay?' Sam asked.

'Yeah.' Dean sat up. 'Why'm I on the floor?'

Sam gave a shaky laugh.

'You just kinda keeled over.'

'Huh. Must be hungry or something.'

Sam harrumphed and muttered 'yeah, or something,' under his breath.

'I'm gonna butcher the goat,' he said out loud.

Dean's pupils widened and the freckles on his face became noticeably darker.

'Can you make us a fire place?' Sam asked, 'nothing flashy, just figured it'd be good to exhaust the smoke outside so we ain't all chokin' on it.'

Dean took care of the fireplace while Sam skinned and chopped the goat, organized the kids to chop vegetables and sent a few of them out to steal a large stew pot. A couple of hours later a large pot of goat and vegetable stew was steaming away in Dean's new fireplace and Sam had sent all the kids out to scrounge up some bowls.

Sam went and got the moonshine out of Dean's duffel and then sat down next to him on a makeshift bench the kids had concocted; a plank of wood stretched across two cut down barrels.

'Good job with the fire place,' Sam said, taking a swig of hooch and handing the bottle off to his brother, 'I don't reckon I ever told you how impressed I was when you fixed up that fire place back in our old rooms. You're good at makin' stuff Dean.'

Dean took a long drink and then leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees and his arms hanging forward, the bottle held loosely between his fingers.

'I ain't talkin' about it,' he said, 'so you can quit tryin' to butter me up.'

'Fair enough. You learn anythin' from Dad's journal?'

Dean nodded. 'A lot. None of it good.'

He passed the moonshine back to Sam and went and retrieved the journal from his bag

'Listen to this: _January 1859 — I went to Missouri and learned the truth._'

Sam scrunched up his face. 'Dad went to Missouri? A couple months after Mom died?'

'No, as it turns out. Missouri's a person. Missouri Moseley. And she had quite a tale to tell,' Dean stared pensively into the distance. 'I don't really remember our grandparents that well, and they died before you were born, Sammy, so you ain't gonna remember 'em at all. Seems Grandma and Grandpa Campbell were active abolitionists; knew John Brown real well. Missouri was a runaway slave and she stayed with Grandma and Grandpa for most of '58. Dad went to see her after Mom died cuz he needed to find out the truth about something that happened that August,' Dean's eyes flicked up to Sam's face and then drifted back off into the distance. 'Apparently Mom and me were visiting Grandma and Grandpa Campbell one day and while we were there a pro slavery posse came to the door. Grandpa Campbell made Mom and me hide in a secret room behind the pantry, along with Missouri. To cut a long story short, things went south pretty fast and Mom heard a couple guns go off. She left me with Missouri, snuck out of our hiding spot and confronted the posse with a kitchen knife.'

Dean stopped talking and grabbed the hooch from Sam. He took a long drink, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then passed the bottle back to Sam before continuing.

'It's, ah…the rest…it ain't a pretty story.'

'Go on,' Sam encouraged.

Dean rubbed a hand across his eyes, swallowed hard and then stared at the floor.

'The leader of the posse was real impressed by Mom's spunk,' Dean said slowly. 'He sent the others outside to burn our grandparent's bodies and then…and then…' Dean's voice dropped to a whisper, 'he raped her, Sammy.' He looked up at his brother. 'And the bastard who did that, who killed our grandparents and raped our Mom…it was Azazel.'

'_Azazel_? I was expectin' you to say Alastair.'

'The story ain't over yet.'

Something occurred to Sam and he frowned. He did some quick math and the bottom dropped out of his world.

'Am I…_Oh God_…' suddenly Sam needed a hit so badly that he ached, 'I'm not…_his_…am I?' His blood was roaring in his ears, his heart was pounding, and he might not remember Dad but that didn't mean—Dean's arm was suddenly around his shoulders, holding him firmly, grounding him.

'No! _God_ no! I wouldn't've told you like this if you were. Mom was already pregnant with you when…it happened.'

'Sick fuck!' Sam spat.

'Yeah. Thing is, Sammy, Azazel spotted Mom in town when you were almost ready to pop out, and he became obsessed; convinced you were his. Mom laughed at him, told him he wasn't good enough to be a father. She was worried though, so she talked to Missouri; the only one who knew what he'd done to her. To cut a long story short again, it seems Azazel decided that if he couldn't have you, no-one could. He passed through Lawrence next when you were six months old, him and Alastair, and…well…you know what happened.'

Sam nodded. 'So all this…everything that happened to us…it's my fault.'

Dean hugged him tightly. 'Don't be stupid. None of it's your fault! The only person to blame is Azazel.'

Sam grimaced. 'Yeah,' he said, 'I blame him for a lot. Mom, Jess. He tried real hard to turn me into his son too.'

The boys sat in silence, Dean drinking quietly while Sam got his own cravings under control. After a while Sam took the hooch away from his brother, capped it and put it on the floor behind them. 'While we're sharin' good news, I saw Jake while I was out earlier.'

'Jake? As in Jake Talley, Azazel's latest 'special' boy'?

Sam nodded.

Dean's face tightened. 'Fuck. Did he see you?'

'Yeah. We talked for a while, actually. I told him that I killed Ruby.'

Dean was on his feet before his brain caught on that he'd decided to move.

'You did _what_?' he snarled.

Sam shrugged. 'They already knew. Figured I may as well get my version out there. I told Jake she was playing games with me, withholding my Laudanum, taunting me with it. I told him I was a desperate mess; that she had it in her hand, but she wouldn't give it to me and I just snapped.'

'What did he say?'

'That I should go and see Azazel. He tried to get me to go with him then and there, but I made out like I was desperate for a hit. Told him I was smokin' an opium pipe now, that I'd found a supplier out in Chinatown. He asked me if I'd seen you and I played it all confused. He said you were out and I told him I'd go look for you after I got my hit. He seemed pretty convinced I was a total fuck up. Which is good. It means Azazel ain't gonna be expecting it when you and me go over to his place tomorrow and blow his fuckin' brains out.'


	6. Chapter 6

_**A Twist of Fate…Part 6**_

_(See Part 1 for warnings)_

_**August 1874**_

The Winchester brothers packed their stuff and moved digs again, shelling out for a top-of-the-range boarding house which had a private rear entrance and its own bath-house. Shortly after dusk they moved silently out of the house and made their way through the teeming streets to the rotten, boarded-up building which had been home for several years and a home base for much longer.

It was impossible to approach Azazel's place without being seen and as soon as they heard a certain whistle, the boys knew they'd been spotted. Dean heard Sam swallow hard beside him.

'It's gonna be okay,' he said quietly.

Jake and a couple of new guys met them at the top of the stairs.

'Hey, Jake!' Sam gave a loopy smile and made his eyes as wide and innocent as possible, 'You said to come, so I'm here!'

Dean made a soft noise.

'Oh yeah! Look who I found. A girl in Chinatown had him,' Sam leaned in close to Jake and whispered conspiratorially. 'He was unconscious for days! He's not the same anymore, Jake. He's not…' Sam made a vague hand gesture.

Jake looked closely at Dean and Dean did his very best blank, empty expression; a countenance he'd perfected after nine months in a place that treated him as something less than human.

'Huh,' said Jake. 'I guess I ain't really surprised nobody's home no more. I heard tell some o' the things they do to 'em in that place. Reckon I'd check out too. C'mon let's take you to see the boss.'

The stair that Dean had put his foot through the last time he'd been here still wasn't fixed and there were a few more rotted through now besides. Jake took the lead up the stairs, followed by Sam, then Dean and the other two flunkies were bringing up the rear. Dean reached forwards and gave Sam's hand a quick squeeze because those shoulders? They were definitely Sam's angry shoulders, and Dean could tell that his little brother was having a hard time keeping it together.

A baker's dozen of Azazel's boys was sitting on the floor around the smoky fireplace and the man himself was sitting in his usual easy chair, smoking his pipe. Jake went to him and whispered in his ear.

Azazel sucked on his pipe while Jake spoke to him and then withdrew it from his mouth and stared at Dean for a long while, before dismissing him and turning to Sam.

Dean's mouth almost fell open and it was a real effort to keep the blank expression on his face. He couldn't believe how easily they'd played Azazel; how quick he'd been to discount Dean as nothing more than a broken-down whore.

'Sammy,' Azazel drawled, 'Jake told me what happened with Ruby. You've been a very bad boy.'

Sam let loose with one of his patented bitchfaces.

'Wha'da _you_ care about Ruby? I'm more valuable to you than she was.'

Azazel stared at him unblinkingly and then his lips curled in a feral, unfriendly grin.

'True, Sammy, true,' he sucked on his pipe again and then pointed it at Sam, 'still it's not good for group morale to let something like that go unpunished.'

He nodded at Jake who grabbed Sam's arms and pinned them behind his back.

Sam struggled and yelled and Dean backed slowly against the wall as Azazel put his pipe down and got to his feet. He rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles and then strode purposefully towards Sam. Azazel patted Sam's cheek, almost hard enough to count as a slap, and grinned at him.

'Aw Sammy-boy,' he said, 'you know you've got this coming.' He drew back his fist and Sam tensed, waiting for the blow.

'Hey ass-wipe,' said Dean.

Azazel—and everyone else—turned to look at him and the manic grin fell off Azazel's face pretty damned fast. Dean had his Colt out and the business end was pointed right between Azazel's eyes.

Dean squeezed the trigger and Azazel was blown clear across the room, blood trickling from a small wound just above his nose and his eyes wide and unseeing. Suddenly, one of the flunkies tackled Dean from the side, knocking him to the ground and causing the gun to fly out of his grasp. Sam smashed the back of his head against Jake's face and Jake let go of him with a thick-voiced curse. Sam threw himself at the Colt, sliding along the floor on his belly and picking it up with one hand.

'You Goddamn sonovabitch!' Jake roared, pulling a knife from his boot and advancing on Sam. Sam rolled and fired, once, twice, three times and Jake was down. Dean meanwhile had dealt with the flunky and he reached out a hand and pulled his brother to his feet.

'Ya know, Sammy,' he said nonchalantly, looking over at Azazel's boys who were sitting frightened and unmoving by the fire, 'I've gotta be honest; I'm a little offended by how easily Azazel dismissed me as "not a threat". Guess he forgot how good a conman I am.'

Sam clapped him on the back.

'That's a mistake he ain't never gonna make again, huh?'

Dean nodded. 'It's also a mistake no-one else is gonna make again. That's the bitch of a play like this. It's strictly a one-shot,' he turned to look at Azazel's boys. 'Sorry about the mess. Y'all have a nice day now.'

The brothers took a long hot bath as soon as they got back to the boarding house, soaking away Azazel's and Jake's blood and soothing their own bruises. They kept their weapons balanced precariously on the edge of their tubs, just in case. Neither one of them felt an ounce of guilt; Azazel had raped and murdered their mom, murdered their grandparents and ordered Jessica's death. As far as Sam and Dean were concerned Azazel had got what he deserved. And Jake…Jake was self-defense.

They were still warm and damp from the baths when they re-entered their room and they both froze immediately, years of training having honed their senses so that they could always tell when someone was in their room.

'Hello Dean,' said a gravelly voice, before either Dean or Sam could voice a challenge.

'Castiel?'

'Yes.'

The officer of the law moved out of the shadows and lit a candle on the mantelpiece.

'Hello Sam.'

Sam nodded tersely; uncertain where this was going and ready to back whatever play his brother made.

'We need to talk,' Castiel sat down at the small round table and gestured at the boys to do the same, 'my sources tell me that Azazel Se'irim has been shot dead.'

'Really?' said Dean. 'Well…I ain't gonna lie and tell you I'm all cut up about that. Sonovabitch had it comin' to him and then some.'

Castiel's blue eyes drilled into Dean before flicking to Sam. Sam bore his intense scrutiny as impassively as he could, trying hard to let nothing show in his eyes.

'I assume Dean has told you who I am?'

'Yessir.'

Cas inclined his head. 'I admired your father very much. He was a good and righteous man. He worried terribly about you Sam; your mother gone; your father absent for so much of your childhood. He worried that you hadn't had much parenting.'

Sam absorbed that for a moment and then said, 'I had Dean.'

Castiel nodded and turned back to Dean.

'Dean,' he said, 'do you know anything about the death of Azazel?'

Dean gave him a bright, empty smile. 'Like I said, Cas, I ain't gonna lie…'

When Dean said nothing further, Castiel's face fell just a little and he put a hand to his forehead and rubbed at the furrows just above his eyes.

'Azazel Se'irim is a man with a lot of enemies,' Castiel said finally, 'there are many with motive to kill him. I presume you have an alibi for your movements this evening?'

Dean stared at him.

'Good,' said Castiel, 'I will interview you formally tomorrow. You can tell me your alibi then.'

Dean nodded and Castiel got up to leave.

'Cas?' Dean stopped him at the door, 'How did you find us?'

'I had you followed after our last meeting. You did very well. Two of Alastair's men picked up your trail at the Horse's Head, but you lost them both. You did not lose my men.' Castiel tipped his hat and walked away and Dean turned to Sam, whose eyes were wide and incredulous.

'What just happened, Dean? Did a _cop_ just give us time to come up with an alibi?'

Dean went and got a bottle of whiskey out of his duffel and rejoined his brother at the table.

'You see Sammy,' he said, taking a huge swig and handing the bottle off to his brother, 'me and Cas, we're like this,' he crossed his fingers. 'We've just got this profound bond.'

-X-

The Winchesters concocted an alibi with Ellen and Jo and then met with Cas and his partner Uriel for their formal interview. Uriel turned out to be the sort of police officer that Dean and Sam were used to; an arrogant dirt-bag with an over-inflated sense of his own importance. Dean hated him on sight and Castiel had to get in between the two of them and calm things down on more than one occasion. The boys were held while the police corroborated their alibi and then, with a great deal of reluctance on Uriel's part, they were released without charge.

'Bad luck, Uriel,' Dean said gleefully, slapping the man on the back. 'Looks like you're gonna have to get up off your fat ass and do some real, proper investigating this time instead of just pinning it on the closest stooge.'

Uriel smiled nastily. 'Give my regards to Alastair when you see him.'

'_What_?' Sam demanded, as Dean's face lost all its color.

'Hadn't you heard?' Uriel said spitefully, 'He made bail an hour ago.'

With Alastair out and the police knowing where they were staying, the boys decided to move digs again, working extra hard this time to ensure that they got to their new abode without a tail. The second floor of an abandoned building in the middle of Bandit's Roost was home this time and the boys hauled some barrels, planks and boxes inside and constructed some rough-and-ready furniture.

'I think we should go after Alastair,' said Sam, sitting down across from Dean at the makeshift table. He leaned forwards and looked at his brother earnestly. 'He's gonna come lookin' for you, Dean. As far as he's concerned, he owns you. And on top of that you shot dead one of his business partners. Ain't no way he's gonna leave you walkin' 'round free.'

Dean ran a hand tiredly across his face. 'I _know_ that, Sam,' he sighed and got to his feet. 'I'm gonna go take a leak,' he jerked his thumb towards the back alley. 'We'll decide what we're gonna do when I get back.'

Dean headed across the room and walked slowly down the stairs. Sam meant well, Dean knew he did, and he knew that his brother was right, knew that they had to make plans, but he just needed some time to get over the shock of hearing that Alastair was out. The late afternoon air was cool and the breeze, when it blew, gently wafted the smell of rotting garbage and piss at him. As Dean took up position facing the back wall of the alley it occurred to him that he barely even noticed the slum district's stench anymore. Dean sighed. Sam was right. They needed to finish this with Alastair once and for all and then…then they needed to move back out to the country, somewhere with miles and miles of farmland; wide, blue skies and sweet, fresh air. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear someone approaching him from behind until it was too late.

-X-

Half an hour later, Dean still hadn't returned, and when Sam went to look for him, he found signs of a struggle.

It had been eight days since Sam had last dosed himself up with Laudanum; physically, the drug was out of his system. Psychologically, all it took was a high-stress situation for Sam to start craving a hit so badly that his hands shook. And Dean being violently taken from under his nose; Dean, probably in Alastair's clutches, almost certainly being hurt…that was enough to trigger a fully-fledged panic attack. Sam dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands and tried to calm down. He had to focus; had to put his sudden craving aside and find his brother; and he had to do it now.

Sam Winchester—armed, determined and on a mission to find his missing brother— was a frightening sight. He barreled straight at the nearest potential witness—a wiry Irishman with a handlebar moustache who was leaning against the alley wall and working his way through a bottle of hooch. Sam wrapped his hands around the man's throat and shoved him flush against the wall of the alley so fast that the man's bowler hat fell off.

'Who took him?' Sam growled.

'Easy lad,' the man's friend—another Irishman—soothed. He held his hands out, palms up and kept his knees crouched, trying to pacify Sam as if he were a dangerous dog. 'We dinnae want no trouble, alright lad?'

Sam squeezed the man's throat harder.

'Who?'

'It's the pretty boy you're lookin' for?' the friend said, 'Big, full lips; green eyes?'

'Yeah. That's my brother.'

'It was one of the Unholy Trinity; a big black man.'

'_Gordon_?' Sam let go of the man's throat and the man slumped against the wall, gasping loudly. Sam backed away.

Gordon? Seriously? Had he taken Dean on Alastair's orders or was Gordon exacting his own revenge for Azazel's death?

'Which way did they go?' he asked the Irishmen.

The one who'd been doing all the talking shrugged. 'Didn't pay no mind,' he said. 'Not our business.'

-X-

Ash seemed to be Dean's go-to guy for information these days so Sam's first port of call was the Horse's Head Saloon. Ash's old man was tending bar and he frowned and reached low for his shot gun when Sam walked in.

'I want you out,' he said.

Sam held his hands up.

'Easy. I'm just lookin' for my brother. Gordon took him someplace.'

'I don't know nuthin' 'bout that,' Ash's father said. 'What I do know is that my son's been talkin' with y'all and Alastair's hellhounds done been in here and worked him over good. So you git now.'

'You know where I can find Gordon?'

Ash's father lifted the rifle and cocked it.

'Alright, alright. I'm gone.' Sam backed out carefully.

He stood in the shadows beside the Horse's Head and contemplated his next move.

'Sam?'

The tentative voice was female and sounded vaguely familiar, neither of which meant "_not a threat"_ and Sam put a hand on the hilt of his bowie knife before replying very quietly in the affirmative.

As the girl merged with the shadows and came to stand beside Sam he recognized her as one of the Trinity's fancy-girls. She wasn't a friend of Jo's, or of Ruby's, and Sam scoured his memory trying to figure out how he knew her.

'You maybe don't remember me,' she said softly, 'but you likely remember my cousin, Scott Carey; he was one of your crew.'

Sam's eyes widened.

'Ava?'

'That's me.'

'I do remember, Ava. I'm so sorry for what happened to Scott.'

Ava sniffed and wiped at the tears that had started to fall from her eyes.

'Scott was a good boy,' she said, 'as good as any boy to come outta the slums of New York, anyhow. He didn't deserve what Gordon did to him.'

'I know,' Sam said, 'and I'm sorry. There was…there was nothing I could do.'

Ava was crying freely now.

'He gutted him like he was a rabbit and left him to bleed out behind the stables—and I don't even know why.'

'He messed up a Job,' Sam told her, 'brought attention down on us. Gordon is…not forgiving when anyone steps outta line.'

Ava's chin quivered as she fought to hold in her tears and Sam's inherent compassion came to the fore. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest and letting her cry while he stroked her hair and murmured nothing very much into her ear. Eventually she pulled away and looked at him intently.

'I know where Gordon's holding your brother,' she said. 'If you give me your word that you'll kill the sonovabitch, I'll tell you where he's at.'

-X-

Sam crept towards the dilapidated weatherboard house, pausing every few steps to look around and make sure that he wasn't being watched. When he got close to the house he could see Gordon through the boarded-up front window, and he could see his brother tied to a chair and gagged. Gordon had a gun to Dean's head. Sam figured that trying to go in the front would be nothing but a one way ticket to an early grave, so he ducked back into the shadows, skirted around the outside of the house and silently turned the back door knob; it was locked. Sam got out his lock pick and had the door open in fifteen seconds. Once inside he picked his way through dusty, broken furniture, avoiding, and then deliberately setting off, the first of two trip wires that his former boss had set up. Dean's muffled scream of "_Sam"_ when the first trip wire set off a grenade, nearly made him shout out a reassurance, but that would ruin the play, so Sam stayed silent and stepped over the second wire.

'I knew your brother would come for you,' Gordon said to Dean, 'Takin' one of you was a sure-fire way to get hold of you both. Hold on, now Dean. Let's not get upset just yet. Let's just wait and see.'

Sam took off a boot and lay it in the middle of the floor before safely triggering the second trip wire.

'Sorry for your loss, Dean,' Sam heard Gordon say, 'Now you just sit tight while I go and make sure l'il Sammy's properly dead and then I'll be back to put a bullet in your head.'

Sam pulled back into the shadows and waited.

He didn't have to wait long before Gordon appeared in the back room, his rifle at the ready. He smiled when he saw the boot, but he was still wary.

Sam edged forward stealthily, put a pistol to the back of Gordon's head and cocked it.

'Drop the rifle.'

'You wouldn't shoot me, would you Sammy?'

'In a heartbeat.'

Gordon chuckled.

'See that's the stone cold killer I've come to know and love. You're one of us, Sammy. No better, no worse. I see what you and Dean are doin'. You're makin' your play, aimin' to take the three of us out so you can take over the gang. I respect that, Sammy, I do. It's the way of our world. But I ain't goin' down without a fight!'

As he finished speaking, Gordon spun rapidly, knocking the gun out of Sam's hand and then smashing him in the face with the butt of his rifle. Sam fell to the floor, dazed and put a hand to his nose, trying desperately to stem the pouring blood. Gordon brought the gun around and Sam watched as he readied it, and then he threw himself to the left, just as Gordon fired. He was on his feet again in a flash, kicking Gordon in the balls and then wrenching the gun from the man's hands. Before he could ready it to fire, Gordon kicked out at him and Sam watched in dismay as the gun tore from his grip and spun away out of reach. Gordon attacked him then, launching punch after punch and kick after kick and Sam blocked and parried and threw a few punches and kicks of his own, but then Gordon got him backed against a table and slammed him down onto it, knocking the wind out of him. As Gordon hauled him back up to his feet, Sam dragged a piano-wire garotte out of his jacket pocket and wrapped it around Gordon's neck, pulling and squeezing with all his strength. Gordon scrabbled at his throat and struggled to breathe and his eyes rolled back in his head, and the whites turned red, and blood began to spurt from his neck as the wire cut through his jugular vein. Gordon slumped to the ground and still Sam kept squeezing, until he was absolutely sure that his former boss was dead. He let go then and backed away from Gordon's twitching body, staring at his own bloody hands in disbelief. He'd brought almost every weapon he had with him; his pistol, a couple of knives, knuckle dusters—the garotte he'd picked up at the last minute, simply because it was so light and easy to carry. He'd never expected to use it on Gordon, much less to use it successfully. Sam wiped his hands on Gordon's shirt and then staggered into the front room. Dean sagged with relief and muttered something that sounded like 'about damn time.' Sam squatted next to him, his hands jerky and uncoordinated as he began to undo the ropes that bound his brother. As soon as he had one of Dean's hands free, Dean ripped off his gag and helped untie his other hand.

Once both his hands were free he took hold of Sam's head, tilting it one way and then the other as he inspected his brother's bloody, battered face.

'You alright, Sammy?'

'Yeah.' Sam's voice was a lot raspier then he would've liked.

Dean gently touched the bridge of his nose and Sam winced.

'I reckon he broke your nose again,' Dean shot to his feet so fast that the chair clattered onto the dusty floor behind him. 'I'm gonna rip his goddamn lungs out!'

'No point,' Sam said. 'They ain't doin' shit for him no more. I near took his head off with my garotte.'

Dean gaped at him and then hurried into the back room to see for himself.

'Man,' he said when Sam caught up with him, 'we're sure rackin' up a body count these last few days. Reckon it's about time we got the hell outta Dodge.'

Sam sniggered. 'Or maybe we should go _to_ Dodge City?'

'I'm serious, Sam. We need to get outta New York. Start afresh some place new.'

Sam nodded. 'That's all I want. But first we gotta take care of Alastair, cuz he ain't gonna leave loose ends. Either we kill him, or he kills us. You know that, right?'

Dean sighed and swore under his breath.

'Alright,' he said finally, 'but let's at least take a couple days to get our breath back.'

-X-

Sam wiped Gordon's blood off him as best as he could, and then stripped off his button down and his undershirt and burnt them. Dean took off his own shirt and passed it to his brother and then they walked slowly back to their latest squat, Sam wearing Dean's button down and Dean in just his white undershirt.

They let themselves in and both stiffened immediately when they sensed the presence of another person in the squat.

Castiel moved out of the shadows.

'Hello Dean. Sam,' he took in their generally disheveled appearance and frowned. 'You are both injured.'

'Hazard of the life,' Dean said with a shrug, heading straight for the whiskey, 'What brings you here, Cas? And how did you find us?'

He took a swig from the bottle and then handed it over to Castiel, who took it reluctantly, sniffed at it and pulled a face.

'Chief of Police, Michael Angelides wishes to retain your services,' he told Dean solemnly. 'He wants you to be his inside man; to win back Alastair's affections and gather data on his activities as our informer.'

Fear tore through Dean like a tornado and he froze, unable to move and unable to speak past the terror choking up his throat.

'No!' Sam glared at Castiel and went to stand beside his brother. 'You can't ask him to do this!'

'I do not believe Michael intends to _ask_,' Castiel said apologetically.

Sam glowered. 'The chief can't expect Dean to just bend over and agree to be his puppet, it's too risky. It would put him in too much danger.'

Castiel nodded. 'I agree. Especially if Alastair has any reason,' he hesitated, 'to believe that Dean may have been involved in Azazel's death.'

'Yeah, well, you…What?' Castiel's words penetrated the haze of Sam's fury.

I am here to help you,' Castiel said solemnly, 'I suppose you could say that I have rebelled.'

He put the hooch down on the table and moved to stand directly in front of Dean. He peered up at him, his piercing eyes demanding that Dean look at him. When Dean finally made eye contact, Castiel put a hand to his shoulder.

'You were Alastair's favorite apprentice,' he said.

Dean looked away, his expression a blend of fear, shame and humiliation. Castiel gently took a hold of his chin and forced him to make eye contact again.

'We interviewed Alastair at length. He believes he owns you, mind, body and soul. He wants you to submit to him. Michael believes that if you do that, you will be able to work your way out of Alastair's dungeons—' Sam stiffened, and turned to look at his brother.

'—and become,' Castiel continued, 'a valued member of his team; someone who could help us bring him down. As I have said, I do not believe this is something that you should be put through; it is far too dangerous and I am furious with Michael for expecting you do to it.'

Dean was trembling. Sam reached out and put an arm around his brother's shoulders.

'I'll kill Michael Angelides before I let him send you back to that club,' he hissed.

'There will be no need to resort to such measures,' Castiel said, 'I will see to it that you are hidden from the chief.'

'Yeah? And how will you do that?' Sam demanded.

'I will hide you in one of our safe houses. Michael will not think to look for you right under his very nose.'

Dean couldn't control the tremors that were jolting through his body. He couldn't go back to the Hellfire Club; couldn't bear to be slowly taken apart, bound, sliced, whipped, paddled, his mouth fucked until he vomited, his ass fucked until it bled, his cock caged so that he couldn't orgasm, his cock pumped ruthlessly until he was coming dry. The Hellfire's dungeons were one long, painful, soul-destroying mind fuck and he knew what Alastair wanted; knew how to get out of the dungeons; but he wouldn't—_couldn't_—do it.

He couldn't kneel at Alastair's feet and voluntarily, of his own free will, be the perfect submissive that Alastair demanded. And there was no way that he could fulfill Alastair's other requirement for getting off the rack; no way he would ever be willing to pick up the whip and start breaking in the new recruits.

'Hey,' Sammy suddenly pulled him into a hug. 'It's okay,' he said, 'I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. I'm gonna look after _you_ for a change.'

To his utter horror, Dean realized that he had tears streaming down his face; that his little brother was hugging him and patting him on the back because he was crying like a baby and—_shit_, he really was going to start growing girly parts any minute.

'I'm okay, Sammy,' he croaked, wiping at his face before pulling away.

Sam looked at him skeptically, but didn't respond. Instead he turned to Castiel.

'Are you sure we'll be safe at this safe house?' he demanded.

'I believe so,' Castiel replied.

So the Winchesters packed up their duffel bags and moved again, this time into a brownstone row house in one of New York's upper-middle class areas. Although the house was a two bedroom and they were grown men, Dean still found his little brother sliding into bed beside him later that night, his long arms wrapping protectively and possessively around the older Winchester. If asked later, Sam would say that he hadn't seen the point in dirtying two rooms and two sets of bed linens, but in truth he just needed the comfort of being near his brother. Both boys felt most secure when they were together; and if Alastair was gunning for them, security was paramount.

But security did not necessarily equal restfulness and neither of them slept well. Sam woke several times from blood-filled nightmares, and he had to shake Dean awake on at least half a dozen occasions when his brother cried out and made frightened whimpering noises in his sleep.

The boys got up at first light, washed and dressed and went down into the kitchen. Sam lit the fire and they helped themselves to bread, butter and jam from the surprisingly well-stocked pantry. Sam found a canister of tea and a teapot and put some water on to boil.

'Where do you wanna go when all this is over?' Dean asked.

Sam considered the question. 'Texas, maybe?'

Dean nodded thoughtfully. 'Texas is good. Someplace big anyway. I don't never wanna be cooped up again.'

Sam broke a piece of bread off the loaf and slathered it in butter, with just a thin scraping of jam. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and then ran his tongue over his top lip to clean off the excess butter and jam that had gathered there.

'You should eat,' he said to Dean.

Dean pulled a face but was saved from having to answer by the kettle beginning to shriek. Pushing himself back from the kitchen table, he found a rag and wound it around the handle of the kettle, bringing it across to the table and filling the teapot. Sam handed him a chunk of bread, well spread with both butter and jam, and Dean ate it wordlessly while he waited for the tea to steep.

'So,' Sam said finally, 'what's our next move?'

'Like I said yesterday, Sammy, we need to take a couple days to rest up.'

Sam nodded. 'And after that?'

Dean grimaced. 'After that we go after Alastair.'

Sam went and rummaged in the kitchen drawers until he found a tea strainer and then searched the cupboards for a couple of mugs.

'Alastair's got good security,' he said as he poured the tea.

'I'll take mine Irish,' said Dean.

Sam stared at him. 'I'm not putting whiskey in your tea, Dean,' he said flatly. 'Besides, you finished off the hooch last night and I seriously doubt a police safe-house is stocked with alcohol.'

Dean made a show of searching through all the cupboards anyway.

'How are we gonna take down Alastair?' Sam asked, when a disgruntled Dean finally collapsed back at the table, empty handed.

'I got some ideas,' Dean said, 'maybe not quite a plan yet, but give me a day or two to think on it,' he frowned. 'Trouble is, I can't see us gettin' it done without Ellen and Jo's help and I ain't too keen on puttin' them in the line of fire.'

-X-

The safe-house had a large bookshelf in the parlor, stocked full of leather-bound books. Sam had browsed the collection excitedly, his eyes lighting up when he'd spotted _Great Expectations_. Taking it down from the shelf, he had folded his large frame into one of the easy chairs and was now reading avidly, his eyes never moving from the page. Dean was bored stiff. He'd explored the house at length, poked and prodded into every drawer and cupboard he could find and was now amusing himself by building a tower out of playing cards on the parlor floor, having failed to persuade Sam to play poker with him, no matter how much he'd tried to irritate his younger brother into leaving his book.

When there was a rattle of keys at the front door, Dean was delighted. He sprang nimbly to his feet, withdrew his pistol form the back of his trousers and hid behind the parlor door. Sam—_finally_!—put his book down and took up station behind the bookshelf, his own pistol at the ready.

'Dean? Sam? It is me: Castiel.'

Castiel entered the parlor and Dean stepped up close behind him.

'Sheesh, Cas,' he said with a grin, 'way to nearly get shot!'

Sam stepped out from behind the bookshelf, nonchalantly tucking his pistol into the waistband of his trousers.

'Hey Cas,' he said, 'Everything alright?'

His eyes widened when Uriel stepped up behind Dean and put a gun to his head.

'Had you shot my partner,' he said, 'it would have been the last thing you ever did.'

'Cas?' Dean snarked, 'you wanna call off your Pit-Bull?'

Castiel made an impatient hand gesture and Uriel lowered his weapon.

'Why is _he_ here?' Sam asked. 'And are you sure we can trust him?'

'Alastair has been brought in for questioning again,' Castiel said gravely, sidestepping Sam's question, 'regarding the murder of Gordon Walker. Unfortunately, we are not sure that we have enough evidence to formally charge him.'

'What we need,' Uriel added, 'is a confession. If someone he trusts were to be put in a holding cell with him, he may be tempted to brag about his actions.'

'No,' said Sam, 'No way. I'm not letting Dean anywhere near that asshole!'

'He will be in a police cell,' Uriel said. 'How much safer can he get?'

Sam glowered and went toe-to-toe with the police officer.

'Right,' he drawled, 'cuz no-one ever got shanked in a police cell, did they?'

Uriel backed Sam against the book shelf and pinned him there, and Castiel had to physically restrain Dean to prevent him from assaulting a police officer.

'Sam _Turner_,' Uriel sneered, 'AKA Sam _Remington_, AKA Sam _Winchester_. We've got a dossier _this_ thick,' he held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, 'on you. We know _all_ about you. The only reason we're not hauling _you_ in for questioning over Gordon's murder is that we think it would be far more productive to get your brother in a cell with Alastair. Our attitude on that can change if you boys stop being useful.'

'Get your hands off him,' Dean snarled, and Uriel stepped back and held his hands up, palms out, in the universal 'hands off' gesture.

Dean turned his head to look at Castiel who was standing behind him and had both arms wrapped firmly around Dean's torso.

'Personal space, Cas!' he said.

'Promise me you will not do anything stupid if I let go of you,' Castiel growled, his eyes intense and demanding.

'Whoa, Cas,' Dean smirked, 'you know, the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.'

Cas sighed and released his hold on Dean.

Dean grinned at Sam, who barely restrained an eye roll, and then he began to pace.

'Look,' he said, 'Alastair ain't gonna tell me Jack squat. I don't know why you even think he would,' he held up a hand when Uriel opened his mouth to speak, 'and don't give me that shit about him _wanting_ me or whatever. What Alastair wants…he ain't gonna be lighting his pipe afterwards and whispering confidential pillow talk in my ear, that ain't what he wants from me.'

'I know what he wants, Dean.'

'Do you? Do you really?'

Uriel nodded. 'He wants you to be his slave.'

Dean drew a shaking hand over his jaw and then strode to the window and stood looking out, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

'Right,' he said finally, 'and in your experience, do masters tell their slaves all their dirty secrets?'

'Yes,' Uriel nodded emphatically, 'To the master, it is like telling something to his dog. The dog will not repeat it; it is not capable of betrayal.'

Sam shuddered.

'How can anyone think like that? And how can Alastair see Dean that way?'

Nobody answered the query and the four of them stood silently in tableau until Dean finally turned and faced Castiel.

'What if he doesn't confess anything to me?'

'We think he will.'

Dean hesitated. 'What if there's nothing for him to confess?'

Uriel puffed out his chest. 'Then we start interrogating other suspects.'

The police officer turned obliquely towards Sam, and Dean met his brother's gaze uneasily.

He turned to Castiel. 'Will I be…safe? I won't be asked to…to…_go_…with…?'

'No Dean. That won't be asked of you. You have my word.'

'Okay,' Dean nodded decisively. 'Okay.'

-X-

If he were ever up for the drop, Dean imagined that the walk to the scaffold would feel just like this. Every step that he took towards Alastair's holding cell caused his heart to beat harder as his flight or fight response kicked in, urging him to either turn around and run away or to start throwing punches. And yet he did neither, simply plodded towards his fate like any other condemned man, powerless to stop his inextricable, inevitable march towards Hell.

Dean and his escort stopped deep inside the cold, damp Tombs and Uriel hefted the bunch of tarnished brass keys that he held in his hand, slowly selected the right one and unlocked the cell. The heavy wooden door groaned open, revealing Alastair sitting on the dank stone floor with his back against the far wall. He had his knees drawn up and his arms resting over his knees. His face morphed from blankness to delight when he spotted Dean, and Dean's feet rooted to the spot in fear. It took a none too gentle nudge from Uriel to get him over the threshold and into the cell and the door smacked him in the back as it slammed shut.

'Dean!' Alastair exclaimed happily. 'Come and sit by me boy.'

Dean swallowed and tried to quell his shaking. Alastair couldn't hurt him here; Dean was the one with the power. He could hurt his former tormentor if he wanted to; no-one would stop him. Alastair was wiry and tough and surprisingly strong but Dean was taller and broader and angrier. He could wrap his hands around Alastair's throat and just squeeze. Squeeze hard until the man's eyes rolled back in his head and he stopped breathing, muscles going slack as—

'_Dean_!' Alastair snapped his fingers.

Dean's response was Pavlovian; he hurried to Alastair's side and dropped to his knees, head bowed.

'Good boy,' said Alastair, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair.

Dean cursed himself for his ingrained response, and ducked away from Alastair's touch. 'No! I'm not…you can't…'

Alastair chuckled. 'Why are you here, Dean?'

Dean concentrated on his breathing. He could do this; play this little game the cops wanted him to play and keep Sammy safe.

'Got lagged for picking pockets.'

'Really? But you were always so good at it.'

Alastair's hand settled on Dean's thigh and Dean swallowed hard and stamped down the urge to start throwing punches.

'Yeah, well. I've been a little tied up the last year, I've gotten rusty.'

Alastair laughed softly. 'There's my Dean. Still so much spirit. I've never wanted to break you completely, you know. I like it when you fight me too much.'

Alastair drew his hand up Dean's thigh and Dean shivered. Well, if Alastair liked it so much when Dean fought him, who was he to deny him that pleasure? Dean drew his fist back and launched a vicious undercut, but Alastair intercepted it easily, twisting his wrist and then slamming him face first into the rough stone wall. He bent Dean's arm up behind his back and moved swiftly to kneel behind him, shoving one knee in between Dean's spread legs and putting his other hand to the back of Dean's head, effectively pinning him against the wall.

When Dean felt Alastair's lips and tongue nuzzling against the side of his neck he shuddered and tried to throw his head back, but Alastair held him firmly in place and Dean had no choice but to accept the unwanted assault on his neck. Finally, Alastair pulled away with a satisfied sound.

'Why are you here, Dean?' he asked again.

'Because cops are stupid. They think seeing me again will make you all talkative and you'll just spill all the details of how you killed Gordon.'

Alastair laughed softly. 'They really are stupid,' he agreed, 'if they haven't yet worked out that it was you and little Sammy who took out Gordon. And Azazel.'

'No we didn't,' Dean said, just in case there were any cops listening at the door.

Alastair twisted his arm harder and higher and Dean cried out, sure that his shoulder was going to pop out of its socket at any minute.

'Don't lie to me, boy,' Alastair said. He increased the pressure and Dean felt hot tears begin to roll down his face.

'Please,' he sobbed, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry…'

Alastair leaned in close and Dean felt the man's warm breath against his ear as Alastair whispered: 'You will be.'

He pulled back and let go of Dean's arm. Dean let his arm hang loose at his side. He wanted desperately to cradle it against his chest but he knew he couldn't move without permission.

Alastair gave a satisfied grunt and let go of Dean completely. He stood up and backed away, regarding his protégé with approval.

'You are not to move,' he said sternly.

Dean felt humiliation burn through him. He wanted desperately to stand up and start throwing punches but he knew he'd never make it. The second he moved a muscle, Alastair would be on him like a rash, and he'd just end up getting hurt again. Alastair, for all his wiry frame, was surprisingly strong. He also knew a lot of techniques for restraining and immobilizing people, pressure point holds, and simple ways to cause excruciating pain. Added to which, he was a professional Dom and a psychopath—a truly scary combination—and Dean knew that as much as it galled him to do so, he was going to kneel like a naughty child, with his tear-stained face pressed to the wall, for as long as Alastair told him to.

'Did it ever occur to you,' Alastair said finally, 'that you have been delivered to me as a gift? I own a lot of people in this town. There are a lot of people eager to do me favors.'

Fear churned low in Dean's belly at Alastair's words because the possibility that Alastair had arranged for this simply hadn't occurred to him and it really should have. No-one knew better than he did how many powerful men Alastair had in his pocket and even if the Chief of Police was incorruptible, even if Dean trusted Castiel with his life, that didn't mean there weren't others, lower down the chain of command, who wouldn't sell their souls to Alastair for a chance at greater power.

Alastair moved in behind him again, undoing Dean's trousers and slipping them down to his knees. As Alistair prodded a spit-slicked finger at his entrance it occurred to Dean that he might actually be fucked in more ways than one.

-X-

When Sam re-read—for the twelfth time in a row— the paragraph about Miss Havisham being jilted at the altar, he put _Great Expectations_ down in disgust. He got to his feet, put his hands to his lower back and arched backwards, cracking his spine. He paced to the window and stood staring out at the elm trees and the unlit street lamps, giving up all pretenses that he wasn't worried sick about his brother.

Sam sighed and swiped his bangs out of his eyes. He had a bad, bad feeling about this. Of course, both he and Dean knew that Alastair wasn't going to be confessing anything, because there was nothing _to_ confess, but that wasn't really the point. Dean had only agreed to Uriel and Castiel's plan to keep Sam safe and to buy them some time. Dean had made eye contact with his brother, right before the police had marched him down to the Tombs and the message had been clear: sort out an alibi for us.

Dean had found some toffs' clothes in one of the wardrobes upstairs when he'd been poking around earlier that day. He'd come into the parlor wearing a stove-pipe hat and carrying a cane and a pipe, looking very pleased with himself.

'Hey, Sammy,' he'd said, 'who am I?' He'd spoken out of the side of his mouth, '_Four score and seven years ago_, I wore a funny hat!'

Sam had rolled his eyes. It was expected of him.

As soon as Dean had left with the cops, Sam had gone and gotten changed into a suit and a tie and he'd taken the cane and top hat Dean had been playing with, as well as a cloak. The Winchesters were supposed to be lying low but Sam figured that if he went downtown in disguise, it would suffice. It had worked too. The guttersnipe who'd tried to pick his pocket had genuinely believed he was a toff (and had been horribly surprised when Sam nearly broke his fingers) and Jo had actually tried to solicit him until he'd lifted his head and she'd gotten a good look at his face. Still, it had given him a credible reason to go into the quiet of Harvelle's. Jo took him into the private suite that she and her momma shared and then both Jo and Ellen hugged him senseless.

'You're lookin' so much better, sugar,' Ellen said, 'but I ain't sure it's safe for you to be around here. There's folks lookin' for you, hun.'

'I know,' Sam said, 'I just need to set up an alibi is all. For yesterday, early evening.'

Ellen's mouth became a thin line.

'You boys need to get outta town,' she said, 'or you're gonna get shanked or stretched.'

'We will,' Sam nodded, 'Just got one more thing to take care of first.'

Ellen put a hand to his cheek. 'Leave it be,' she said, 'just go.'

Jo huffed. 'The other party ain't gonna leave it be, Momma. Sam and Dean ain't got no choice here.' She turned to Sam, 'You know they got 'im back in the Tombs again? Questioning him over what happened to Gordon.'

'I know,' Sam said grimly, 'the cops've got Dean in there too, in the hope that he'll brag to him about it.'

Ellen looked horrified. 'Oh sugar,' she said, 'You sure he's up to that?'

Sam shook his head, his throat clogging with suppressed emotion.

'And when they don't get the jailhouse confession they're lookin' for?' Ellen continued, 'What then?'

Sam looked briefly at his feet, his shoulders tensing. 'I'm guessin' they'll hold Dean and then come pick me up for questioning. Which is why I need to get us an alibi.'

Ellen nodded. 'Well it can't be us again. It'd look too suspicious.'

'Could y'all help me find Ava? She owes me a favor.'

Jo agreed to go and look for her and Sam sat a while with Ellen. She made a pot of tea and they chatted about inconsequential things until Jo reappeared with Ava.

The fancy-girl's eyes went wide as soon as she saw Sam and she beamed.

'Well look at you! Ain't you all fine and dandy?'

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly, whispering 'thank you' in his ear over and over again.

'If you really wanna thank me,' Sam said, 'you could let the police know that me and Dean were with you yesterday. If they ask.'

Ava pulled back and let her eyes roam over him.

'Of course,' she said. 'You just tell me where we were and what time we were there and I'll tell anyone who asks!'

Afterwards, Sam had made his way home extra special carefully, checking for tails and using every trick and technique he knew to make sure that he wasn't followed.

Sam reached a hand up and massaged the back of his neck, as he watched the leaves of the elm tree sway in the breeze. He didn't think Castiel and Uriel really appreciated just exactly what they'd asked of Dean. Sam had been witness to enough of his brother's nightmares to know that Dean was truly terrified of Alastair and Sam thought—no, he _knew_—that Dean would go to pieces the minute they locked him alone in a room with his former tormentor.

Sam may have only been fifteen years old, but he was very far from young and naïve. He'd worked for the Unholy Trinity since the age of eight and during the last seven years he'd picked pockets, burgled houses, committed armed robbery, extorted protection money from shop owners, run cons and scams, beaten men senseless under orders, and he'd killed. He was a recovering opium addict, and since he'd first sunk his dick into the soft warmth of a girl three years ago, he'd shared the pleasures of the flesh with seven different partners. His dearest friends and closest companions were villains, thieves and hookers and while Sam had always gone out of his way to ensure that he was as widely educated as possible, he was best schooled in the machinations of New York's underbelly and well-versed in all aspects of the seedier side of life. He knew, in some detail, what services the Hellfire Club offered its clients, which meant he had a fair idea what Dean had been through as one of Alastair's whores. In truth he let Dean 'protect' him from finding out anything further, more for Dean's comfort than for his own. The one thing that he knew with absolute certainty was that Dean couldn't do this; couldn't spend time alone with Alastair and walk out unscathed. Something had happened to him down in those dungeons; changed him in subtle but important ways. Dean was not what he used to be any more; he wasn't as strong, and Alastair was going to break him open and play with his entrails.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Why had he agreed to let Dean do this? He had to get down there right now; had to get Dean out of there before it all went to hell in a hand-basket. Sam turned around abruptly and found Castiel standing right behind him.

'_Jesus Christ_, _Cas_! Where the hell did you spring from? You scared the crap outta me.'

'I came in the back door,' Castiel said gravely. 'Sam…we have a serious problem.'

Sam's skin erupted in goose-bumps and he could feel every hair on his body stand upright, as if he were a dog under threat. Castiel's eyes widened and he stepped backwards, which puzzled Sam until he realized that he'd stepped forwards and was looming threateningly, his hands balled into fists, and rage roaring inside his skull. He gasped in a lungful of air and willed himself to relax, pushing himself back against the window sill, folding his arms across his chest and tucking his fists underneath his armpits.

'What happened?' he asked, his voice trembling with unspent emotion.

'We were betrayed,' Castiel said, his voice strangely flat. 'Somebody released Alastair and Dean from their cell. We do not know where they went.'

This time Sam couldn't restrain himself.

'You let that _psycho_ kidnap my brother from under your noses?' he yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth, as he launched himself at Castiel and forced him back against the parlor wall, pinning him there by his shoulders. 'What the _fuck_, Cas?'

'There will be retribution when those responsible are found,' Castiel promised, 'but right now, finding Dean needs to be our priority.'

Castiel wasn't fighting his hold but Sam could feel the tension and the restrained strength that ran through the police officer's body. He could see the fury and determination that burned from Castiel's eyes and he knew that they were on the same page; they would get Dean back, whatever it took. He released his hold on the police officer with a grunt of apology.

'Where have the police looked so far?'

'The Hellfire Club and Harvelle's Whorehouse. He is not in either of those places.'

Sam nodded. 'He's got a couple houses that he uses for private parties. I'll check those out. And I'll put the word out that I'm lookin' for Alastair.'

He met Castiel's eyes. 'It's better if you ain't around when I find him. You're gonna want…what do they call it? Plausible deniability? You go back to the Tombs, do the job your way. If you hear anything I need to know, go down to Harvelle's and let Ellen or Jo know. They'll find a way to get a message to me.'

Castiel nodded. 'We'll find him Sam.'

'Yeah. We will.'

-X-

It took Sam four hours to find the house where Alastair was holding Dean.

Four hours.

Without the help of Ellen, Jo and Ash it would've taken him much longer.

Dean had already been missing for an hour when Castiel had come to tell Sam that he was gone.

Which meant…five hours.

His brother had been in that psycho's hands for five long hours.

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other and watched as the two henchmen Alastair had posted out the front of the house passed a tobacco pipe and a hip flask between them, complaining bitterly that it was all very well for Alastair, inside the house, enjoying his whore, but they hadn't had any supper yet and it was about time somebody came to relieve them.

Jo tapped Sam on the shoulder. 'That there's our opportunity,' she said.

Sam nodded. 'We'll get a pot of your momma's stew, just enough for two, and drop about five fluid ounces of laudanum in it. That ain't enough to kill 'em, but it'll sure fuck with 'em.'

Jo took off and Sam watched the lookouts and tried not to think about what Alastair was doing to Dean, because when he thought about that, a red haze descended and it was all he could do to hold himself still and not go charging in there, guns blazing. He had to do this the smart way, finish things once and for all; the waiting was killing him.

At last, Jo returned with the drugged-up stew and a couple of bowls and spoons. She handed everything off to Sam and then pulled her dress off over her head, revealing a much skimpier one underneath.

'Okay,' she said, taking the stew back from Sam, 'wish me luck.'

He watched as she sashayed over to the lookouts and spun them a yarn about Alastair having arranged for her to bring their supper and sorry she was running a little late.

'The boss knew he was gonna be tied up the whole evening,' she giggled, 'well, it ain't him who's tied up, I guess, but y'all know what I mean, right, sugar?'

She let the men squeeze her ass and run their hands up her legs, simpering and leaning into their touches as if she was enjoying them. Sam admired her professionalism. He waited until the men's words started to slur and then sprinted across, before they could put two and two together and get their hands around Jo's throat.

It took the stoned lookouts far too many seconds to recognize Sam and by the time they did his kosh was in his hand and he was swinging hard.

'You bitch!' the taller of the two henchman staggered towards Jo, his eyes glassy, and Jo punched him in the balls and then let Sam finish him off.

They rolled the two unconscious men under the porch and then Sam picked the lock on the front door and they edged quietly inside.

All the windows in the house were completely boarded up and the place was dark, quiet and musty. It took Sam and Jo a moment for their eyes to adjust and when they did, the first thing they saw was two more guards, coming straight at them with hunting knives. Sam slid his own knife from the sheath at his waist and pushed Jo behind him. He went into a half crouch, with one arm out in front of him and his knife arm up and ready to strike. The guards separated and came at him from different sides and Jo squealed and flattened herself against the wall. Sam ducked under a swinging blade and grabbed his assailant's knife arm, twisting it up behind the man's back and using his body as a shield. The other man glanced at Jo, telegraphing his intent and Sam drove his own knife into the jugular vein of the man he was holding and let him go, rushing to put himself in between Jo and her would-be attacker. This other man was a lot smaller than the first, a good five inches shorter than Sam, and he was scared, casting frightened glances at his companion's body and shuffling hesitantly as though the last thing he wanted to do was fight Sam. He made a half-hearted lunge towards Sam and then turned and ran for the door. Sam threw his knife and nailed him in the back.

Jo smacked his arm. 'What did you do that for? He was running away.'

Sam watched as the man clawed at his back and made wet mewling sounds before finally falling still.

'Couldn't let him get away, Jo. He would've just come back with reinforcements.'

Sam pulled his knife from the dead man's back and wiped it on the man's pants. A noise like a gunshot sounded suddenly, making both Sam and Jo throw themselves to the ground.

'Oh my God,' said Jo. 'Do you think…Dean…if Alastair heard…would he—'

The gunshot noise sounded again and Jo choked back a sob.

'He's shooting him! Oh my God, Sam! Oh my God!'

The noise sounded a third time and Sam shook his head.

'That ain't a gunshot,' he said, 'it's the crack of a bullwhip.'

Sam followed the sound of the whip down into the basement, with Jo at his shoulder.

'You should stay back,' he told her.

'The hell I should,' her face twitched and she put her hands on her hips, 'I love him too ya know.'

Sam pushed the basement door open and blanched. He thought he'd been prepared, he'd really thought he'd be able to handle it, no matter how bad it was, but _this_…Jesus Christ. Sam knew that he was breathing far too heavily, far too loudly, and Jo…Jo was sobbing.

'Jesus Christ,' he said, not really meaning to, not really meaning to say anything, and Alastair dropped the bullwhip and turned to face them. Sam tore his eyes away from…Dean…and let them settle on his brother's tormentor.

'Sammy!' said Alastair. There was a flicker of uncertainty and then his face settled into its usual arrogant smirk.

'Come to take away my favorite toy?'

The red haze descended again. Sam's head was an ocean of crashing waves and his entire body was thrumming and buzzing and twitching, and he knew that it would only take a spark, just a spark, and he was going to burst into blazing, blistering violence.

'You don't get to touch my brother,' he said, and his voice sounded deep and ugly even to his own ears.

Alastair laughed. 'Beg to differ, Sammy. Look how beautifully I've marked him as my own.'

Sam shook his head. 'I warned you, Alastair, years ago, what would happen if you didn't leave him alone.'

Alastair's lips pulled back over his teeth, more a spiteful sneer than a smile.

'You don't have the—'

'I'm not a kid anymore,' Sam said, pulling his pistol from the back of his trousers and leveling it at Alastair's chest. 'Now I _can_ kill.'

Alastair threw his arms wide apart.

'Go ahead! Send me to Hell. I'll be wai—'

Sam squeezed the trigger.

A red rosette bloomed on Alastair's chest and the bullet's impact threw him backwards. Sam moved to stand over his lifeless body and stared into his empty eyes. This man had caused him and Dean more pain and despair than anyone else in their lives and given their truly fucked up circumstances, that was really saying something. Blowing the guy away, putting an end to his existence for all eternity, Sam had expected to feel _more_. Killing Alastair hadn't changed anything. They could never change the way Alastair had schemed and plotted and messed with their lives; could never erase the pain of the time they'd spent apart, could never change the soul-deep damage he'd caused Dean. Sam turned abruptly to face the large St Andrew's cross, mounted on an A-frame in the center of the room. His vision blurred and he turned to look at Jo, his lips trembling with the effort of not breaking down completely.

Jo tried to smile reassuringly. 'We'll release his feet first. Then one arm, and then you hold him while I release the other arm.'

Sam nodded. 'I'm gonna…' he stepped up behind his brother and put his fingers to the side of his neck. When he felt the slow, steady pulse he nearly lost control all over again. A jagged breath helped him regain it. So did tearing off the tight collar that Alastair had fitted around Dean's throat. He pulled off the blindfold next, and then went around to the other side of the cross so that he could look into his brother's eyes. They were closed. He couldn't bring himself to really look properly at the thing Alastair had put in his brother's mouth; it was forcing his mouth wide open and made it look as if a metal-legged spider was climbing out of his throat. With trembling fingers he undid the clasp at the back of Dean's head and eased the contraption out of Dean's mouth before hurling it across the room.

Dean stirred a little.

'What's wrong with him?' Sam whispered to Jo. 'It seems more like he's asleep than unconscious…but how the hell could he sleep through all this?'

Jo shook her head.

'This ain't my area of expertise, but I've heard talk that the right combination of pleasure and pain can send a person into…like…a trance.'

'How do I get him out of it?'

'You don't. We're just gonna have to look after him until him comes 'round on his own.'

With a last look at his zoned-out brother, Sam moved back to the other side of the cross. Dean's torso—from his shoulders down to his thighs—was a mess of raised, red stripes, gashes and blood. Sam could just about look at that without hurling. What he really couldn't look at, without his hands starting to tremble with the need to kill Alastair all over again, was the polished wooden phallus sticking out from between Dean's ass cheeks.

'Jo,' Sam waved vaguely towards the offensive thing, 'could you…please…I can't…'

Jo gently removed it and then made a soft noise of distress. Sam looked up sharply and when he saw the blood dripping down his brother's thighs there was nothing he could do to stop his stomach from rebelling. He turned away and threw up violently and the only thing that kept him from turning on Alastair's corpse and tearing it to pieces was his brother's wrecked, raspy voice quietly calling his name.

Sam was at his side immediately, putting a hand to his upper arm and reassuring him that he was there.

'It's okay, Dean. I've got you. Jo, let's get him down.'

Between them they got Dean down from the cross and then found his clothes and dressed him. Dean's eyes roamed over Alastair's spread-eagled body but aside from a full body shudder he gave no sign that it had registered with him.

'C'mon, let's get you outta here.'

Sam and Jo braced Dean like a pair of crutches and slowly, painfully, made their way out of the basement and out into the street. The lookouts they'd left unconscious under the porch had gone and Sam cursed silently. With a bit of luck, they'd keep quiet and now that Alastair was dead, now that the Unholy Trinity had been wiped from the Earth, perhaps whoever stepped up to fill the breach would let bygones be bygones and not seek retribution.

They carried Dean to Harvelle's, where they found Castiel taking tea with Ellen. To say that Castiel looked uncomfortable would have been the understatement of the century. He was sitting at Ellen's occasional table with his back ram-rod stiff and his eyes wide and startled. He held a tea cup possessively in one hand and occasionally jerked it against his lips and took a drink. Ellen also looked uncomfortable, although with Ellen discomfort came out as aggression.

Ellen was on her feet with her hands on her hips the minute they walked through the door. She gave them a quick once over and then unleashed her fury on her daughter.

'Joanna Beth! The next time you go runnin' off with a pot of my stew and a bottle of opium to take on Alastair and his crew I swear to God I will slap you silly!'

Jo rolled her eyes.

'Who's this?' she gestured at Castiel.

'He's a cop.'

Jo raised an eyebrow. 'He on the payroll? Is he here to collect a non-cash payment?'

Castiel stood abruptly.

'I am Castiel Novak,' he announced, 'I am an officer of the law and the only reason I have set foot in this den of iniquity is to provide assistance to Sam and Dean.'

'Ellen I need to lay him down,' Sam finally got a word in edgeways. 'Can I put him on your bed?'

'We should return to the safe house,' Castiel interjected, 'I have a hansom cab waiting.'

He swapped places with Jo and then formally thanked Ellen for the tea.

'Officer Novak,' Jo put a hand to his arm. 'You had Pamela Barnes arrested when she was trying to find out who you were for Dean. Any chance you could drop those charges?'

Castiel's face fell. 'Dean has already asked this of me,' he said, 'and I would happily have done so, only when I looked into her case I learned that she had been stabbed to death inside the Tombs. I am…so very sorry, miss. I understand she was a friend of yours.'

Ellen and Jo cried, but Sam just felt numb. There had been so many deaths in the past fortnight and the only reason Pamela had died was that she had tried to help them. He looked at Dean, to see how his brother was taking the news but Dean still looked dazed and Sam wasn't sure he had much idea what was going on.

Back at the safe house, Sam gave Dean the rest of the Laudanum that Jo had brought, and then bathed and treated his wounds, stitching a couple of gashes that were really bad. The whole time he worked, he talked to his brother, telling him that he was safe, that no-one could hurt him, that no-one would ever hurt him again and just as he finished redressing him and pulled the blankets up to his neck Dean put a hand to Sam's knee and looked up at him.

'D'we get 'im?' he asked.

Sam smiled and nodded.

'Oh yeah. Sent him straight down to Hell.'

Dean smiled back at him. 'S'good,' he muttered, and then fell asleep.

Sam joined Castiel in the parlor.

'I don't want details,' the police officer said, 'just reassure me that Alastair von Damon won't be causing any more trouble.'

'He won't. What happened at your end, Cas? Did you learn anything?'

Blue eyes became stormy gray, and flashed briefly with torment, before Castiel clamped down on his emotions.

'Uriel,' he said flatly. 'He came to me this afternoon, wanted me to join him on Alastair's payroll. He had gambling debts apparently. Alastair waived them, and gave him an extra income besides for doing "favors" as requested.'

'What did you do?' Sam asked.

Castiel's eyes widened. 'Clearly I did not join him on Alastair's payroll.'

'I know that, Cas. I'm just wondering what you did with Uriel.'

'I arrested him. What else would I do, Sam? I am an officer of the law.'

Sam nodded. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply—'

Castiel waved him off. 'How is Dean?'

Sam shrugged.

'Physically he ain't good, but we've both been worse. I'm more worried about in here,' Sam tapped his head. 'Alastair really did a number on him; really mind-fucked him.'

Castiel inclined his head and regarded Sam thoughtfully. He opened his mouth to speak, but his response was forestalled by a knock on the front door. Sam was on his feet instantly, drawing his pistol.

'Stay back,' Castiel told him, 'it is likely one of my colleagues.'

'Yeah,' Sam muttered, 'and that don't mean we don't gotta worry.'

When Castiel returned to the parlor, alone, his face was haggard.

'Alastair's death—the demise of the Unholy Trinity—has created something of a power vacuum. There are a number of players vying for supremacy. One of them has just burned down the Hellfire Club and Harvelle's. I'm sorry, Sam. There were no survivors.'

It took a moment for the words to sink in and once they did, Sam's mind rebelled.

'Not Ellen and Jo though…' he said, 'we just saw them.'

Castiel just shook his head, tears pooling in his deep blue eyes.

It was all too much and the breakdown that Sam had been fending off ever since he'd plunged his knife into Ruby's gut two weeks ago finally came. Castiel held him through it and Sam allowed himself, just for a little while, to be a heart-broken kid who needed a grown-up to tell him that everything was going to be alright.

-X-

Dean was feverish and incoherent for days and when he was finally lucid again, he wouldn't speak. He didn't react at all to the news that Ellen and Jo were dead and that scared Sam more than if his brother had broken down.

'Castiel says a guy called Nicholas Sataniel was behind the fires. He also says we shouldn't go after him cuz there's always gonna be some new devil waiting to rise up and take over and we should just get out while we can.'

Dean nodded vaguely.

'You still wanna go to Texas, Dean?'

Dean shrugged.

'Cuz Cas had another idea. You wanna hear it?'

Dean shrugged again.

'Remember Cas telling you about Dad's friend Bobby Singer? The man Dad asked to come find us?'

Dean nodded.

'Cas sent him a telegram. Apparently he wants us to come and stay with him and his wife. He's got a farm in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.'

Dean looked slightly interested.

'So wha'dya say? You wanna move to South Dakota?'

Dean inspected the ceiling above his bed for a little while and then with a sigh, he nodded his head.

'Can't hear you, man,' Sam said, cupping his ear.

Dean rolled his eyes.

'I said, yes, bitch,' he growled.

Sam laughed. 'That's what I wanna hear, jerk! Looks like the Winchester boys are finally gonna live a normal, apple pie life!'

Dean looked at his little brother's shining eyes and cautiously permitted himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they really were going to be allowed to have their happily ever after.

_Epilogue to come…_


	7. Epilogue

_**A Twist of Fate – Epilogue**_

_(See Part 1 for warnings)_

_**June 1876**_

Dean had almost finished scattering his seeds in the final row when the crunch of boot on dirt had him spinning around, with his shovel held protectively in front of him.

'Hey Dean,' Sam greeted him.

Dean frowned and looked up at the almost setting sun.

'Aunt Karen sent you, huh?' he said to his brother.

Sam nodded. 'Seemed like you didn't hear the dinner bell.'

'I didn't. I was miles away.'

Sam's brow furrowed and he did that wide-eyed innocent expression that usually had people eating out of his hand.

'_Literally_ miles away,' he asked, 'or…?'

Dean shook his head.

'Just thinking.'

Sam's expression became slightly more alarmed.

'Nothing bad,' Dean assured him.

Sam's vigilant expression relaxed a little. 'So you're feelin' alright?'

Dean scowled at him. 'Relax, Sam,' he said irritably, 'I haven't had an attack in months.'

When they'd arrived in Sioux Falls two years ago, Dean had still been recuperating from the injuries Alastair had inflicted on him. He'd been unnaturally quiet and had seemed content just to stay in bed, letting Karen dote on him hand and foot—bringing his meals in to him on a tray, fetching and carrying for him—and making no real attempt to face the world. The only time he ever came downstairs was to raid Bobby's liquor supply and eventually, a fortnight into their stay, the man had called him on it.

'We need to talk, son,' he said, coming into Dean's room and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Bobby didn't miss the way Dean's pupils enlarged or the way he shrank from the man sitting on his bed.

'I ain't your son,' he said.

Bobby rubbed at his beard and regarded Dean thoughtfully.

'Karen and I always wanted children,' he said, 'but the good Lord didn't see fit to bless us with any.'

'That ain't my problem,' said Dean.

'No. But the way I see it, family don't end with blood. Your daddy damn near drove me crazy the whole time we served together. He was the most arrogant, egotistical, hard-assed perfectionist I've ever met.'

Dean's eyes were almost ludicrously wide and a small smile touched his lips.

'Wow, Bobby,' he said, 'don't hold back, will ya? Tell me what you really feel, huh?'

'Ain't in my nature not to call it how I see it. Now don't get me wrong. Your daddy was a good man; real smart, a brilliant tactician, loyal, dedicated, if a little obsessed sometimes. He was like a brother to me, Dean. And he loved you boys somethin' fierce. When he knew he wasn't gonna make it, his only thought was for you and your brother. He begged me to take you in, to raise you as my own, and not being able to find you, not being able to honor his dyin' wish, it's been eatin' me and Karen alive these past seven years. Karen ain't your momma, I ain't your daddy, and you ain't our son. But I ain't never gonna stop thinkin' of you and Sam as my boys. And I ain't never gonna stop lookin' out for your best interests: which is why I gotta ask you to hand over the bottle of three-day-old rotgut you got hidden in your bedside cupboard.'

Dean stared hard at the patchwork quilt on his bed. He knew—because she'd told him—that Karen had started making it when she and Bobby got engaged, expecting to give it to their first born child. When Bobby had come home from the war and told her about his late friend John Winchester and the search for his boys she'd added a row of patches to the quilt, especially for Dean, and then she'd started on a second quilt for Sam. It touched Dean more than he could ever adequately express that while he'd been stealing, grafting and whoring for his survival in New York, out here in Sioux Falls a woman he had never met had been lovingly making quilts for him and Sam and looking forward to the day when she could finally take them into her family. Maybe Bobby was right, maybe family was more than blood.

With a sigh, Dean reached into the cupboard and pulled out the bottle of hooch. He handed it to Bobby wordlessly, refusing to make eye contact.

'Look at me, son,' Bobby said. His tone was gentle but firm and Dean knew an order when he heard one. He raised he eyes reluctantly, and swallowed hard against the compassion he saw in Bobby's expression.

'You need to start livin' again,' Bobby said simply.

Dean's eyes filled with tears. 'I dunno if I can. You've got no idea what I've been through, Bobby.'

Bobby's mouth straightened into a grim line.

'No I don't. But I do know that you have trouble sleepin' and when you do sleep, you have nightmares. I know your brother ends up sleepin' in here more often than not, tryin' to keep you calm. I know sudden noises make you real jumpy, that havin' to talk to people you don't know makes you tremble, and I know that you flinch away when men come close to you. I know you're tryin' to detach yourself from the world, Dean, and I know you're tryin' to avoid pretty much anythin' and everythin'. I also know that I've seen this before: during the war and afterwards too, in war veterans. Some folks call the condition Soldier's Heart. Others call it Nostalgia.'

'Nostalgia?' Dean's tone was deeply derisive. 'Believe me, Bobby, I don't feel nostalgic about the past.'

Bobby scratched his head. 'I don't rightly understand it,' he said. 'Seems to me a person's mind can get damaged from being in a dangerous situation for too long.'

Dean stared at the quilt for a long while.

'So you're sayin' I should be in a loony bin?'

'No, son. I'm sayin' you had to shut down for a long time to cope with what all was bein' done to you, and what you had to do to survive. And now that you're finally safe—really safe—you have to face all that and it's hard.'

Dean shuddered.

'I just…I'm not interested in anything anymore. I don't wanna get close to anyone and, I dunno Bobby, I just don't see any point in plannin' for the future.'

Bobby reached out and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean tried really hard—and unsuccessfully—not to flinch.

'I ain't gonna let you stop livin' kid,' he said. 'Maybe you don't need an old man, but I sure as hell need a young one. Who else is gonna take over the farm when I'm too old and gray to manage? Who else am I gonna teach my trade to?'

'What's your trade?' Dean asked. 'I thought you were a farmer.'

'I am,' Bobby nodded, 'but I'm also a farrier. There are four of us in the village so between us we can see to all the village horses as well as manage our own farms.

Hired help is all very well, but I need a right hand man I can trust and an apprentice. Sam tells me you're a clever young man and that you're good with your hands. And I intend to get you outta this bed and put you to work—even if I have to push!'

And true to his word, Bobby had pushed, forcing Dean to get out of bed, to dress and to take on simple chores around the farm.

Things got worse before they got better. As Dean moved out of his comfort zone and began to challenge himself he found himself having more and more flashbacks and sometimes they developed into fully-blown panic attacks. But bit by bit he learned how to cope and to talk himself down, and with the love and support of not just Sam, but Bobby and Karen too, Dean slowly got back to the happy-go-lucky guy he'd been before everything went to hell. Sam still worried about him, though.

'Seriously,' Dean re-iterated when Sam just keep looking at him, 'I'm fine.'

'Okay,' Sam said easily. 'Pass me that shovel. I'll start covering up the seeds while you finish planting the row.

Dean shook his head. 'You'll get dirty.'

Sam rolled his eyes. 'And God forbid Mr Winchester should get dirty!'

Dean smirked. 'Well we wouldn't wanna ruin your soft school teacher hands now would we?'

When Sam had walked into the village school with a reference from the New York Mission School and asked if they needed any more teachers, the one and only school mistress, Miss Sarah Blake, had been delighted. The village was expanding and the number of pupils in the school was growing and Sarah had been thinking for some time that it would be wonderful if she could split the class in two, with one teacher for the six to ten year olds and another for the eleven to fourteen year olds. Sam himself may have only been fifteen, but he was already almost 6ft3 and with his background, not even the toughest fourteen-year-old farm hand was going to give him any trouble. Mr Winchester commanded the absolute respect of every male pupil in his class; the girls had an unfortunate tendency to get swoony and giggly in his presence and Sam had been embarrassed to find 'Mrs Winchester' lovingly scrawled in many a girl's school book. The village council was delighted with Sam's teaching performance and Dean had been delighted when his little brother and Sarah had started courting.

Sam scowled at his brother's suggestion that, two years later, he was now too soft for manual work.

'Just give me the damn shovel, Dean!'

'Alright, princess. No need to get your panties in a bunch.'

The brothers worked together in silence for a while and then Sam asked, 'So what are we planting?'

Dean's eyebrows shot up. 'Geez, Sammy, don't you pay any attention? What did we just harvest from this field in May, huh?'

'Uh…wheat?'

'Right. So that makes this crop…?'

'Sunflowers?' Sam said sheepishly.

'Give the man a medal.'

He'd never admit it to anyone, but Dean loved it when the sunflowers were in bloom. Sunflowers were so bright and sunny, and the way they chased the sun, forever turning their faces towards it, just made Dean happy. Having spent so long in darkness himself he felt that he could identify with the sunflowers' need to keep their faces turned to the sunshine.

'Hey, Dean? You and Bobby normally look after Freddy Johnson's horses, right?'

'Yeah. You heard, huh?'

Sam nodded. 'His girls are in my class. Larissa told me their two best work horses had foundered.'

Dean snorted. 'Damn fool let them get into his corn. Bobby made up his special bran poultice and we tied gunny sacks over their feet. They'll be right as rain in a week.'

'Which do you enjoy more? The farrier work or the farming?'

Dean shrugged. 'I love both. Maybe I like working with the horses a little bit more. I get a bit shaky around the hot pokers sometimes, but—'

Sam looked up sharply and noticed that his brother's eyes were sparkling.

'You're joking, right?' he said softly.

'I am. I'm alright, Sammy. You don't have to hover over me anymore, okay? Relax. Move on. Ask your girl to marry you.'

Sam grinned. 'Speaking of, Sarah tells me that Ben Braden mentioned you in Show and Tell this morning.'

Dean waggled his eyebrows. 'Show and Tell? Ain't that a little kinky for school kids?'

'Get your mind outta the gutter, Dean! It's where the kids bring in something special to show us like a really big pumpkin or a corn doll that they made, or else they tell us about something really amazing they did like helping their horse to give birth.'

'Sammy?' Dead deadpanned, 'I do know what Show and Tell is.'

Sam scowled. 'So Ben, he told his class that momma's friend Dean came for a sleep over.'

'And?'

'And this ain't New York; it's a small town. People talk. And people talk enough about Lisa as it is, without you waltzin' over there to dip your wick without givin' two hoots about her reputation.'

Sam covered up the last of the seeds and the brothers headed back towards the house.

'Ya know, Lisa doesn't care two hoots about her reputation either,' Dean said after a moment. 'And what we have works for us.'

'What _do_ you have?'

'Good sex,' Dean said bluntly. He shrugged. 'Friendship. Understanding.'

Sam was silent for a moment. 'No-one believes she's a widow you know.'

'Are you askin' me?'

Sam shrugged.

They walked in silence for a while.

'She's from Wisconsin originally,' Dean said finally. 'Came up here when Ben was a baby, with a man who promised her the world. He got restless after a few months and decided to head out to California; said he'd send for her when he got settled. She ain't waitin' on him no more.'

'Was he Ben's father?'

Dean shook his head.

'Was she married to his father?'

There was another lengthy silence and then Dean said:

'This ain't for gossip, alright? I tell you this, it's just between you and me…you don't even tell Sarah. Alright?'

Sam nodded. 'Promise.'

'She was raped. When she was fifteen. By two men who were close friends of her Pa. No-one believed her until she started to show and by then it was too late. Somehow or other she ended up getting the blame, so when Roy passed through and offered to take her with him, she upped and left. I guess…'Dean hesitated, 'I guess we can sorta relate.'

'You told her? About…you?'

'Some. Not everything, but enough. And I guess that's part of it. We understand each other, Sam. We're comfortable together.'

'Then maybe you should make it something more. If the two of you are good together…and…Ben clearly adores you.'

'Dunno. Maybe. Not sure either of us is ready for anything more yet.'

They reached the farmhouse, toed off their boots on the back porch and washed up in the sink there before walking into the kitchen.

Bobby was sitting at the table with a mug of beer in one hand, his fork in the other and a very crotchety look on his face.

'Bout damn time,' he grumbled, 'I'm starved!'

'Oh hush, old man,' Karen said with a fond smile, 'You're hardly wasting away.'

She was busy slicing up a loaf of freshly baked bread and Dean wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek.

'Sorry I'm late, Aunt Karen, I didn't hear the dinner bell.'

'Everything okay?'

"Yeah. You want me to take that to the table?'

'I got it. You go on now and sit,' she shooed him over to the table.

Dean sat down next to Sam and looked up at Uncle Bobby sitting opposite.

'What kept you so long?' Bobby asked gruffly.

'Wanted to get the rest of the sunflowers in.'

'You get it done?'

'Yessir.'

Karen joined them at the table and that was the signal for the men to start helping themselves to cold cuts of beef, cobs of corn, freshly baked bread, buttered peas and stewed carrots.

The boys ate so well since coming to live with the Singers that if they weren't both vigorously active (and if Sam wasn't _still_ growing) they would've been starting to get fat. As it was they both looked fit and healthy and as Karen watched them devour her food with obvious gusto, she smiled with motherly pride.

'Hey Dean,' Sam said suddenly, 'Remember that time back in Kansas when I asked for more?'

Dean grunted. 'Nearly gave me heart failure,' he shook his head. 'No way that was gonna end well.'

Bobby and Karen were sitting very still, almost holding their breaths, and Sam knew it was because neither he nor Dean talked about their past very often; there was a lot in their history that they were ashamed of and a lot that was just too painful to reminisce about.

'It's what got us kicked out the Poorhouse,' Sam explained to the Singers.

Dean huffed. 'Yeah, after they finished whippin' the livin' daylights out of us.'

Sam chewed on his bottom lip and looked apologetically at his brother.

'Sometimes I get to thinkin',' he said tentatively, 'that if I'd just managed to keep my damn mouth shut that day, maybe we'd've had all this sooner, cuz we'd've still been there when Uncle Bobby and Cas came for us.'

Dean scrutinized his little brother carefully and then wrinkled his nose.

'Nah,' he said, 'fate always gets her own way; a push here; a twist there. If it happens, it was meant to be. Besides, you wouldn't be the Sammy we all know and love if you didn't mouth off about injustice.'

Sam shared a sad smile with his brother as they both remembered the number of times Dean had reminded Sam that life wasn't fair and you just had to suck it up and play the hand you were dealt.

'Speakin' of love,' Sam broke eye contact with Dean and turned to look at Uncle Bobby. 'I'm thinkin' about asking Sarah's Pa for permission to marry her. What do y'all think?'

Dean let loose with a 'yee ha' and slapped him on the back. 'Dude,' he said, 'she's a classy broad and way outta your league, but if she'll have you, then you go for it.'

'You have our blessing,' Bobby said, reaching out to grasp his wife's hand.

'What about you?' Karen said to Dean. 'Are you going to let Lisa make an honest man of you or are you going to keep sneaking in through her back door late at night and expecting no-one to notice?'

Dean put his hands over his face.

'Does everybody know about me and Lisa?'

'Yep,' said Bobby. 'You ain't in New York no more, son. This here's a small town. Everybody knows everybody's business.'

Karen stood and started to clear away the meat and vegetables. 'I think you boys should invite your ladies over for a simple family supper next Sunday after service,' her eyes took on a faraway look, 'I'd like to see you both settled,' she patted Dean on the arm, 'especially you. Your twenty-one now, I think it's about time you thought about giving me some grandbabies.'

Dean choked on his beer and shot Bobby a helpless, pleading look. Bobby merely grinned.

As Karen took a steaming, sweet smelling apple and cinnamon pie out of the oven Dean took a moment to look around at his family. Karen was different in almost every way to Mary Winchester and yet she was everything an orphan dreamed of in a mother. Bobby was tough and gruff and quick to call him an idjit and smack the back of his head if he messed up, but he was also kind and supportive and he'd taught Dean a lot. Dean loved him like a father and he knew that Sam did too. And Sam. Dean turned to look at his brother. Azazel used to say they were unhealthily co-dependent and maybe that was true. All Dean knew was that he loved his little brother more than life itself and he would give anything to see the kid safe and happy. As Karen served everyone a generous slice of pie Dean wondered what it would be like to be sitting at his own kitchen table with Lisa serving pie and Ben and a couple of his own kids sitting around the table too. He looked at Sam again and when their eyes met Dean knew their thoughts were on the same track.

'Here's to an apple pie life,' Sam said, raising his spoon.

Dean raised his own spoon, 'To normal,' he said, 'No…to family.'

'To family,' Bobby, Karen and Sam echoed.

Oh yeah, Dean thought, as his mouth closed around a piece of soft, sweet, warm apple, life doesn't get much better than this.

_The End._

**Whew. Well, that's all folks. I've been delighted and amazed every time I got an email telling me that someone had added this story to their alerts or to their favorites…and even more delighted every time somebody sent me a review. Feedback is like manna to writers so thank you so very much to everybody who has taken the time to leave me a comment. Especially those who have commented more than one part and in particular Souless666 who has left me detailed feedback on every part! Much appreciated! But seriously, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story; I really hope you've all enjoyed the ride. **


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